


against my better judgement

by isostatic



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Black Reader, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-07-15 19:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 69,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16069403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isostatic/pseuds/isostatic
Summary: In 1972 the Colorado Springs Police Department isn't the ideal workplace for a woman of colour, but one man makes it worth it. His name is Flip Zimmerman. Against the odds, they fall for each other. But things become complicated as his role with the KKK and the CSPD force them both to question what they are willing to sacrifice for one another. Slow-ish burn with eventual smut and romance.





	1. the wrong foot

**Author's Note:**

> been writing for years but this is my first time writing fanfic and posting anything online so pls be kind! blackkklansman birthed my adam driver obsession so here we are. the fic is third-person POV (i've tagged it as flip/reader and flip/OC as it can work as both) as that's the style i prefer both to write and read and it gives me more freedom to explore flip's side of the story. in terms of plot it's important that 'she' is at least part black (my mom is black and my father was white, so it also holds personal value) but besides that she's pretty descriptionless so feel free to insert yourself into her shoes! hope you enjoy and i'm super eager to hear what you guys think so please leave any feedback you have!♥

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her first day at the CSPD is frustrating for a number of reasons. He is one of them.

Colorado Springs Police Department.

She stood, feet perched on the edge of the sidewalk, the tips of her toes toying with the idea of moving forward. Even now, with her first day of work just minutes ahead of her, the words plastered across the side of the building filled her with doubt. Her own experiences as a black woman told her all she needed to know about police. Dishonest. Corrupt. Racist. Her mind whirred back and forth over the decision, fingers rubbing across her closed palm in anticipation. Still, this sidewalk deliberation would not pay her bills. The CSPD would. She took the first step.

The inside of the building is as she remembers, kitted out in deep wooden strips and glass panels. The man on the desk, despite having seen her for both her application and her interview, double takes when he sees her.

       “I’m here for the records room job,” she states, as if to jog his memory. “It’s my first day.”

She gains a grunt in response, accompanied by a short nod. For a moment, it seems as if their interaction is over before he pushes himself up from the desk and walks her―at what he must assume is a safe distance―to the records room. Its dark and has a strong smell of must that almost makes her cough in response. He opens up the latch on the desk, folding part of the thick wood upwards. He throws a hand to the side carelessly, gesturing she should go through the gap.

       “Officers come in here, they ask you for a file, you hand it to ‘em. When they’re done, you put it back in the same place. That’s it.” He lets the wooden panel slam back down into place. “You got that?”

She nods, although he’s half way out the door by the time she does. She takes a moment to assess her new workplace. Cardboard boxes scattered amongst the shelves, dust settling on the desk top, the faint murmur of phones only just audible through the glass. This is her life now. She better get to work.

 

* * *

 

The first day goes slow.

She finds the officers regard her in one of two ways, either with open criticism or a sheer lack of care that she’s there at all. At least the first keeps things interesting. By the time three o’clock rolls around, she’s had enough of the day and its offerings. Or so she thinks. She just about hears the door as it opens, already elbow-deep in a box full of files in a bad attempt at re-arranging them. She’s in no rush to see to her newest visitor as she shuffles the box backwards and walks back toward her desk. When her eyes first meet his, dark brown against dark brown, they seemed to share a simultaneous confusion, as if neither belonged in that stuffy little room.

       “Where’s Carl?” his voice is deep, booming almost.

His dark hair hangs sleek to his jaw, a goatee and small moustache fixed around thick lips. A strong nose, sharp cheekbones and dark eyes inspect her. Though part of her wants to shrink away, she stands firm in the face of this new stranger despite her better judgement. Even at the distance between them, she still a few steps behind her desk and he a few in front of it, she can tell he has almost a foot on her. He is unlike his shorter, stubby counterparts, with a wide, strong build poorly hidden underneath his red plaid shirt. She wonders idly why he isn’t uniformed like the other men.

       “He doesn’t work here anymore, I do.” Her words are unintentionally standoffish. She had a problem with that.

He walks his light brown brogues closer to her desk, resting large hands on the countertop. As he closes the distance between them, she felt her heart speed. Not for the first time today, she feels threatened. His dark eyes have not moved from her since he entered the room, and for a moment, she wonders whether he will respond.

       “I can see that.” He says blankly. “I need a file. Paulson, Michael.”

If his intention was to make her feel stupid, he has succeeded.

She clenches her jaw as she makes her way to the P section of the files. It’s on a low shelf near the back, and she finds herself crouching to remove the box and flick through the folders. Her fingers move fast, eager to relieve herself from his watchful gaze. She wonders, for a moment, how much her skirt has hitched up at the back. Clearly not enough for him to comment like the other officers, and yet, she puts that down to his seemingly reserved nature. His hand is already outstretched for the file when she stands, crossing the floor to hand it to him. He flicks through it wordlessly, a strand of hair falling down over his strong features. She seizes her chance to be observer, eyes pouring over him.

A holster holds together his large frame, brown panels forcing their way down the sides of his thick chest. The leather has seen better days, the surface frayed in a number of different places. He’s been a cop for a while then, she deduces. She tries to imagine the fear that a cop this size would instil into her, were this meeting taking place anywhere other than the records room. His face takes the place of cops in her memories. The cop who split up the parties she attended in college. The cop who pulled her over for nothing, insisting a full body search. The cop who beat her mother for reading her rights when she was nine. Whatever intrigue this man has fades from her, like smoke into the night.

       “If you’re takin’ that out, you need to sign here.” She tells him, hoping to usher him out.

She pulls a small sheet from her right and slides it towards him. Lifting a pen from under the desk and placing it atop the paper. He looks from the file, to the sheet, to her. His expression is unreadable.

       “Carl never asked for one of those.”

       “I’m not Carl.” She corrects. “But I suppose you can see that.”

The pain from her past memories project onto the man in front of her. He holds her gaze hard before he scoffs, snapping shut the file and placing it on the desk top.

       “You know,” his voice is low as he picks up the pen, “a girl like you should learn to watch that attitude of yours. Guys ‘round here won’t like you talkin’ like that.”

He says the words casually, as if they don’t matter. A chill runs through her body before it’s replaced by a burning rage. The other remarks from officers haven’t quite hit her like this one. The words are condescending, as if he’s doing her a favour.

       “Is that a _threat_?” She sputters.

It’s not until his eyes meet hers that he realises she has grossly misunderstood his comment. Even as he straightens up from his hunched position, her fiery eyes do not leave him. He gulps.

       “No,” he’s only just short of raising his hands in surrender. “It’s advice. This is already gonna be a difficult position for you to hold, there’s no need for you to make it harder for yourself.”

His response throws her off balance. Advice? From him? Why would he care? Her brow furrows tightly over her still blazing eyes. If he was really threatening her, surely there would be no need for him to back down afterwards.

      “Advice? And why would _you_ want to give _me_ advice?” She juts her chin towards him, mind still not made up on whether he’s telling the truth.

Externally, he still seems unfazed by the situation. His mask of calm bothers her.

       “You look like you could use it.” He picks up the file and crosses the few steps towards the door, his fingers lingering on the handle as he holds it open. “Plus, it would be a shame to lose such a pretty face.”

He sees her face contort into confusion as he passes through the door and down the hall. Her mind whirs over everything he said. …Does she have an ally? She can’t work it out. Her fingers drum on the desk in frustration, fingertips falling against his archive sign-out sheet. Through his blocky scrawl, she can just about make out his name.

       Flip Zimmerman.


	2. man on the mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first encounter sticks in her mind for days, but she's no closer to deciding what that means for her. That is until she sees him again.

Days pass in the new job and still she finds herself stopping on the sidewalk every morning, mentally preparing for what that new day holds. Against her better judgement, she takes Flip’s advice. She reminds herself to hold her tongue, to think before she speaks, to never let her face show what her mind thinks. It’s better like that. The officers like her to be seen and not heard. Though she knows that, the self-censorship weighs her down.

       “You’re exactly how I like my women,” one cop tells her one afternoon, hands clasped around her wrist as she passes him the sign out form, “pretty… and silent.”

She doesn’t let her eyes move from the ground as she collects herself.

       One. Two. Three.

She’ll count as high a she can, every day she works here, if it makes things easier. If it stops her from yanking her hand free and slapping him around the face with it. Eventually, he releases her. Sweaty palm encasing the pen as he signs the sheet. Again, she keeps her eyes down as he leaves the room. There are plenty of moments in the day for her to collect herself, and for that, she is grateful. Without it, she might truly be pushed to her wit’s end.

Each day she finds a new way to entertain herself. Whether its re-arranging the shelves, guessing a perp’s crime or humming whatever she last heard on the radio, she will not allow inactivity to take over. Hours she could waste, sat behind the desk with her wandering mind. It’s not so much the wandering that she minds either, it’s where it goes that bothers her. It doesn’t matter what she thinks about, where her thoughts take her, they always circle back. The same end point, every day.

       Him.

Not since their first meeting has she seen Flip, and despite the passing time, she still remembers his words crisp in her mind. _Would be a shame to lose such a pretty face._ She knows, in any other time, in any other place, being called a pretty face wouldn’t matter to her. In all honesty, she’s assured of her looks. Her features are sweet and youthful, her body shapely where it matters. She doesn’t need the affirmation, and when she gets it, it usually doesn’t stir her. It’s his tone that bothers her, she thinks. He hadn’t seemed interested in her at all, and she struggles to think that he might be even now. So why would he say it? Sure, the other men pay her what they may deem as compliments, but it’s not the same. Patrolman Landers has a new ‘compliment’ for her every day.

       “If I weren’t so busy I’d have you bent over that damn desk taking me all day long,” he told her yesterday in that same drunken drawl she now associates with him.

His wrinkled face and boozy aroma sets her on edge daily, her body tensed with dread for whenever he decides to grope her in that moment. Today it’s the lower back. Soon it’ll be the ass. She doesn’t like to think about it too much, filling her dull moments with activity.

The days are long enough as it is.  

 

* * *

 

When the door first cracks open, she doesn’t bother look up. Whoever it is, she has already decided she doesn’t have the time for them. She will address them only when, and if, she has to.

       “Afternoon lady,” a deep voice greets her.

The words shock her for one of two reasons. First, no one greets her in this job. They tell her what they want, harass her, and go. Not always in that order. A greeting would require the other person to have not only manners, but an ounce of respect towards her. Nobody has that here. Second, she knows before her eyes even flick up who it is.

       She clears her throat. “Afternoon.”

Flip has to bow his head to come through the door, his large frame seeming all too big for the tiny room that encases them both. The navy blue shirt that hugs his shape today is worn, a faded brown plaid just visible against its dark counterpart. She keeps her eyes trained on it, rather than his face when he approaches the desk, as if from glancing at her he would know she had been thinking about him previously.

       “Sorry it took a while,” he hands her the file, long fingers outstretched against the brown folder.

A meek “That’s fine.” is all she can manage to muster in response. She no longer feels threatened by him, but something about him makes her wary. A faint smell of cigarettes wafts towards her. Although it is not a smell she’s unfamiliar with, it feels different when attached to him. She shifts her weight on her feet as she grabs him a check-in form, pen filling out the necessary details with ease now. His hand is waiting when she passes him the pen.

       “How’s that attitude of yours coming along?” He raises a single brow at her, there’s an almost tangible sarcasm to his tone.

She feels her mouth twitch at the side, but contains it before it can break into a smile.

       Her answer is diplomatic. “It’s… under control… when it needs to be.”

       “Hmm,” the sound is a thoughtful murmur. “And when doesn’t it need to be?”

His question catches her off guard. The smoothness and depth to his voice makes her think there’s another layer to his statement. She tries to meet his eyes, to determine exactly what he means, but for once, his fails to return her gaze. She ignores the thought, pushes it aside. He is making conversation is all. If she carries on working here for too long she’ll convince herself every man that shows her some kindness has other intentions.

       “Shouldn’t you know that? You’re the one who told me to watch it in the first place.”

He lets out a chuckle, his strong features falling into a more welcoming arrangement that alters her whole perspective of him. Her eyes daren’t leave him for a second, desperate to take in every ounce of this moment. For once in this new job, she feels comfortable. For once, she feels content.

       “I guess that’s true,” he rubs the base of his goatee with his fingertips. “I never said I didn’t like it though.”

Her smile this time is uncontained. The lack of reason to smile before makes it all the more wide, cheeks wrinkled with momentary joy. Seeing her smile gives Flip a similar sense of elation. Her plump lips formed into anything other than a hard-set line gives her a new found beauty, not that there was much left to be given in his opinion. He watches as she reels in her emotion slowly, returning to her previously sensible demeanour. As soon as the smile disappears, he finds himself craving it’s return.

       “I’ll keep that in mind.” She promises, and she means it too.

The way he returns her gaze lets her know. Whatever intrigue she has towards him is mutual. He taps his fingers on the desk twice, reminding himself he has a desk and assignments to attend to. He doesn’t know when he’ll find an excuse to come back again. He’ll think of something soon.

       “I hope that’s true,” he admits, walking backwards towards the door.

He gives her a final glance before he exits. She feels a slight sink as he leaves, turning around to rest her back on the desk, the wooden panel digging into the skin on her lower back. But her mind isn’t on that.

       She thinks about Flip.

About his words, their conversation, the way his voice makes her feel at ease. In a few short minutes, she feels the barriers of censorship she’s built up wearing down. Still, she’s dubious about this new man. His words may be better strung together, but there’s was nothing definitive to separate his intentions from Landers currently in her mind. She’s still unsure what he wants from her. Hell, she doesn’t even know what she wants from him. She trusts her gut. All she knows is that she wants to see him again, and for now, that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was rlly important for me to explore what it's actually like for her at the cspd with this chapter so i hope that comes across well. plus i think the contrast of how the other guys treat her vs flip's treatment of her makes him all the more ~dreamy~


	3. not your average cop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new job feels less like a burden now she has Flip to confide in. She sees him every few days or so and he soothes her mind. Things are almost routine, she is almost happy. But things can change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: this chapter contains intense racial abuse

Just as she thinks of him, he thinks of her.

At his desk with pen in hand, in his truck on the way home from work, she creeps into his mind. The sweet, faint smell of her perfume lingers in his nostrils when he is far from her. The inviting tone of her voice echoes in his mind. He doesn’t take it too seriously, tries to convince himself his attraction to her is something of circumstance. She’s the only woman in the whole precinct, it would be hard for any man to not take a shine to her. If they can put their prejudice aside, that is. He can’t be the only one. He won’t be. He’s heard the way the other men talk about her. Her shape. Her body. Her pretty mouth. He doesn’t let on that it bothers him. She is infinitely more than the sum of those things. And so, he holds his tongue. Even lets out a stiff grunt of what he hopes sounds like agreement when the other men demand his input on their inappropriate comments.

            Things are different when he visits her.

Every two or three days he finds an excuse to go and see her. It’s become so commonplace he could probably fill out his check-out and sign-in sheets with his eyes closed. On the days he doesn’t visit, he finds himself walking past the records room, peeking in to see what she’s doing. Mostly, she’s busy and doesn’t notice his periodic check-ups. It’s probably for the better. He’s aware there’s only a fine line between showing his interest and scaring her away. He doesn’t want to seem like just another skin-hungry cop.

            “You know I never asked,” she begins one day, “why is it you’re never in uniform?”

She has grown accustomed to seeing him in his signature plaid or flannel. In truth, she’s happy he doesn’t wear the standard blue CSPD attire. It helps her distance him from the other cops. Makes her sleep easier about her growing interest in him. Plus, his shirts are tighter.

            “I’m not an officer, I’m a detective.”

She can tell by the way he says the words he is proud of his rank.

            “Detective Zimmerman huh?” she muses, a playful smile on her lips. “Not your average cop.”

            He’s smiling too when he answers, “You got that right.”

She is joking when she says it, but her words are true. He seems so different from the other men that it is a wonder they ended up in the same place. She itches to ask him. To know why it is he chose this workplace, this profession, of all professions. But she holds back, afraid she might not like the answer. Afraid it might ruin whatever it is they’re building. In her mind, sometimes she imagines him as something different entirely. A green grocer. A butcher. Anything other than what he is. But it won’t change anything, she knows that.

            “Well I’m glad.” She talks to keep her mind from wandering. “I don’t like the uniforms anyway.”

He traces circles on the wooden desk with the tip of his fore finger and lets out a small chuckle.

            “You prefer a man out of uniform then?” He raises a dark brow.

She should know by now, that every time they meet he will say at least one thing that will catch her off guard. And yet, she is never prepared for them. She turns her head from her shelf, neck tucked behind her shoulder to catch his amused expression.

            “You could say that.”

She has learnt his game now and knows how to play him back. To answer him with something that might seem innocent but has other undertones. It’s better that way. It’s not _really_ flirting if it’s not upfront, is it? His lips form a smirk from beneath his moustache, the hairs dark against his pale skin. The silky hair on his head holds a natural loose wave around his face on either side. She becomes more and more fond of it as it grows longer, it’s something about the way his fingers knot through it. Thick arm upstretched, all bicep as he scratches the back of his head.

            She has admitted it to herself now: she is attracted to him.

His face holds her attention, draws her in and doesn’t let her leave. His eyes read her with the same intensity as the first day, and whereas before it made her anxious, it excites her now. Feels as if he knows what she’s thinking. And he agrees.

 

* * *

 

Just when she thinks she has come to grips with things, they change. The first she hears of it is through Patrolman Landers.

            “You tellin’ all your little jigaboo friends the CSPD accepts your folk now?” He snarls.

She doesn’t understand his statement, or where it comes from, and so chooses to ignore it. His slur doesn’t even stir her anymore, that’s how she knows the job is numbing her. Before that might have hurt. Now it’s just another day in the office. Keeping her eyes down, she hands him his file wordlessly, like she does every other day. He snatches it from her and slams it against the desk, the aggression of the action makes her jump.

            “You answer me when I’m fucking talking to you!” His whiskey breath clutches her nose while he shouts.

She takes a strong gulp. Clenches her jaw.

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice is as level as she can manage through the fear and anger.            

It’s not a lie either. His words make no sense to her. The ramblings of this particular drunken cop rarely do, but today is something different. It seems directed solely at her, rather than her wider ethnic group.

            “The fuck you don’t.”

He spits over the desk at her feet, his saliva splattered across the toe of her left shoe. She tries to draw in a long breath, her shoulders heaving with the effort. All that fills her lungs is fire. The sheer rage that only that kind of disrespect can bring. There are times, in this job, that she should bite her tongue and keep quiet. This isn’t one of them.

            “I’m not a fucking cop. Nobody in this whole building tells me anything, so I don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about.”

Her words are laced with venom, escaping her mouth before she can think to stop them. She had been polite, and it hadn’t worked. He deserved whatever she could throw at him. She didn’t think far enough to consider what he might send back. Her eyes are locked onto his, the burning fury inside her overpowering the fear hiding just beneath it. Landers looks horrified that she has even dared to talk back to him, never mind say what she said. He feels sick to his stomach. Utterly disgusted that even for a moment, she has felt brave enough to address him with the same calibre he does her. His eyes are hidden behind deep pits, the shadow of his brow bone and gauntness of his face giving him a skull-like appearance.

            “YOU SHUT YOUR NIGGER MOUTH.”

His words are impossibly louder than before, echoing in her eardrums as she feels his warm breath against her from across the desk. The volume of the Patrolman shifts the balance inside her, she is equal parts fear and rage. Her fists clench. Whether it’s with anger, or anticipation of what he might do next, she cannot decide. She waits silently for the next outburst she knows will come, knowing she has already crossed the line of sensible reaction. She’s impulsive, not stupid. If there is even such a thing. His ragged breaths are the only sound that fills the room.

            “You need,” he pauses, as if the words escape him. “…you need putting back in your fucking place.”

He spits and sputters as he talks, wrinkled finger quivering as he points to her, unable to hold still from the whiskey running through his veins. She can see men outside passing by the glass, in the gaps in his speech she can hear their voices. If anything happened, they’d know. Whether they’d care is something else, but at least they would know. Through some feat of courage, she manages to hold his gaze as he withdraws his hand, recoiling from the desk like the wounded predator he is. His feet scuff against the floor in an uneven shuffle as he exits, door slamming behind him.

            She lets out a long, bated breath.

His last words linger in her mind. The fact he didn’t choose to give her the lesson there and then worries her. It means he has time to deliberate. And that makes it worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this is probably as dark/intense as i'm going to take the racism in this fic because the scene with landers was actually kinda hard for me to write even tho it's really important for the plot and character development. in terms of she/flip, them both admitting to themselves they're attracted to each other is a big deal and there's ~big things~ coming soon! 
> 
> thank you to everyone who has already read/left kudos. it reallllllly means a lot to me that people are reading and liking this :)


	4. warning bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interesting turn of events in the records room surprises her, she is no longer the station's rookie. Filled with the knowledge of her own experiences, she must decide what advice, if any, to give to the new recruit. And just as things are looking up, life drags her down. Hard.
> 
> TW: physical violence, intended sexual violence

The next day, she doesn’t even want to come into work. She had tried to push her mind away from the encounter, but she can’t. It’s too big a trauma for her to just bypass. His words stick with her as she walks home, as she cooks her dinner, settles into bed. When she wakes up, they are still in her mind. As she passes through the station door in the morning, it feels as if they are being shouted back at her again, reverberating through the walls. _Yesterday is behind you now_ , she tells herself in a poor bid to find some positivity, _it can’t be that bad again_. She doesn’t even believe herself.

            At midday the bell on her desk dings softly.

When she pokes her head around the shelf, he seems as surprised to see her as she him, their expressions of shock and confusion mirrored on the other’s face. The dim light of the records room casts a yellow glow over his smooth, dark skin. The loose hairs that stick out of his otherwise perfectly round afro are alight with yellow too. What shocks her is not any of these details, it’s his clothes. His stocky form is contained in a fresh, light blue CSPD uniform. Though she hasn’t blinked since her eyes locked on him, she still cannot process what she’s seeing. A black cop. In Colorado Springs.

            “…are you okay ma’am?” his kind eyes look at her with concern.

The sound of his soothing voice shakes her from her daze, she allows herself to blink, to pace a hand on the desk as if to stabilise herself.

            “I just…” she begins, unsure where that sentence is going to end.

            “You weren’t expecting to see a brother in a uniform. I get it.” He chuckles. “I’m Ron, by the way.”

Now that the initial awkwardness has subdued, he is easy-going.

            “Nice to meet you.”

She’s still breathless at the situation. His calmness baffles her. He appears unfazed by the tension of his position. His bright eyes tell her it can’t be more than his first day in the job, and that he hasn’t met Landers yet. It pains her to know that he soon, will be weighed down by the shackles of their workplace. She wonders if she should tell him, give him a warning even. What would she even say? Beware of the racist, alcoholic cop? She’d be warning him off half the damn station. She decides against it. She can let him have his joy for now. She will bear the stress of Landers alone. 

            And then it hits her.

Landers’ aggression, the other cop’s comments, the increased racial tension around the building. They see this as her fault. Think she has opened the floodgates of the black community. As if there was some kind of bat-signal that would draw every black person with in a five-mile radius right to the CSPD to apply for jobs. If it hadn’t had such serious repercussions for her, she’d laugh at its stupidity. Black folk would have to be out of their mind to work here. …What does that say about her?

            “You wouldn’t mind findin’ this for me would ya?” Ron’s voice is somehow comforting, although she thinks that’s down to her perception of him as something, or someone, familiar.

He hands her a small piece of paper with a name and a number on it.

            “That is my job.” She’s smiling when she says it.

As she takes the few steps back into the shelves, she hears his voice inquiring towards her turned back.

            “So how long you been working here?”

She fingers through some of the files, searing for the one she needs.

            “Only a couple of weeks,” her voice is nonchalant despite the fact she has counted every single day, “I’m about as new as you.”

Though the words come out positive, her mind still lingers on the time. Eighteen days. That’s how long she’s been in the job. Only eighteen days and already it feels like an eternity. She is aged by her discrimination. Again, she tries not to think of it, eyes and mind focused on the files. _Sanchez... Sanders… Saunders…_

            “And uh… how is it?” He is apprehensive.

Her fingers pause on the files. She thinks. Holds her breath. Scrolls through them again, name by name. _Sheen… Shelly... Simons…_

            “It pays my bills.” Her voice is light though her mind is heavy.

She hears him chuckle from behind her, a deep, content sound. She finds a momentary comfort in him. With time, she imagines he would be companion for her. Lord knows she needed them around there. Someone who has walked at least part of his life in her shoes. Her eyes skim across the name she has been looking for. _Sloan_. Finally. She removes the thin file, eager to change the subject.

            “I only see the inside of these four walls,” she hands him the file, “I’m sure what you’ll have a far more interesting job.”

Her choice of words is careful. Something can be interesting and horrible simultaneously.

            “Yeah I hope so,” Ron purses his lips, eyes on the file. “They’re making me shadow someone before they let me loose on my own.”

            “Really?” her ears perk up in interest.

            He nods. “Some tall detective guy, I don’t know his name. They call him something different.”

A smile forms across her face.

            “That’ll be Flip. He’s a good guy.”

The whole building is filled with men that are trusted to keep the city safe, and yet he is the only one she would trust to do the job. Even the way he talks to her makes her feel safer in her own position. When he asks, she confides in him about her experiences with the other men. He listens attentively, his face never showing how much it affects him. He is the closest thing she has to a friend. Though that title doesn’t really fit what she thinks of him.

            “You know him?” Ron seems surprised at her familiar tone.

            “It’s my job to know everybody.”

            “I thought it was your job to find files?” he raises a playful eyebrow.

            She matches his tone, “A woman can’t do two things at a time?”

Her arms fold across her chest, challenging him into answering. He barely knows her, but something tells him she is sharp enough to hit back at whatever he offers her. Instead, he holds his hands up in joking surrender.

            “I’ll take that.” He admits defeat.

He takes the file from the desk, holding it in both hands as he takes a step backwards.

            “Thanks for this.”

She offers him a proud shrug and a smile as she watches him turn to pass through the door.

            “Good luck rookie.”

Her words just catch him as he passes through the door, he gives her a stern nod. _You’re going to need it_ , she thinks.

 

* * *

  
The crisp evening air blows against her face when she leaves the station, hair whipping around into her eyes and mouth. She detangles it hurriedly, eager to put as much distance between her and the station as possible. The clouds overhead are thick, darkening her surroundings beyond her comfort. It’s the latest shift she’s pulled since she started with the CSPD. There was a big bust today. Lots of arrests, even more paperwork. It’s not her job to type up the files, she only sorts them, but tonight, she has done both. Her fingers had hesitantly danced over the keyboard as she typed in the information fed to her hurriedly. Trying to focus on listening when men were being shuffled in and out, yelling all kinds of abuse while frogmarched into the overnight cells, hands cuffed behind their back.

            In all honesty, the endeavour might have been quite exciting if she had been able to take her eyes off Flip.

He’s the man marching them in, his big frame dwarfing every man he escorts, making otherwise large men look like children in his company. She notices each of the criminals acts up to every man but him. They know where their limits lie. On the occasion they get too rowdy, he quells the disruption with a loud, gruff shout that sends them all into silence. If only for a moment, it sounds as if his bellowing voice is the only sound in the whole station. She’s never seen him like that before. He is a different man now. A real cop. In action. Worse than that realisation, is the knowledge that she doesn’t mind seeing him like that. She maybe even likes it. His control over the other men, his obvious status around the precinct, makes him more attractive somehow. He’s the man around the station. The officer relying on her typing skills corrects her more than a few times, reminding her to keep her eyes on the screen in hurried, rude manner.

She thinks of him now as she walks, coat wrapped tight around her shape as she makes her way home. The red brick of the building follows her along as she passes, clunky shoes percussing the pavement as she walks. It’s still wet from the afternoon’s rain; the air still holds a light dampness to it. Every night, she takes the same route. It’s commonplace now. She doesn’t think anything of it. And after a long day at work, she’s not concerned with anything other than getting home. It’s the same maze of cars as always, her slim figure slips between them with ease.

            It happens all at once.

A strong hand clasped around her neck. Fingers squeezing either side of her throat. Her feet scuffing against the concrete. Hands slapping up behind her, begging to throttle her attacker. Her torso is slammed over the body of car, the soaked metal winding her temporarily. Everything moves so fast she barely has time to process it. The grip on her neck loosens. It is not choking her now but holding her in place. She sucks in air quickly through her mouth, panic beginning to set in.

            “Not so loud now are ya?”

It’s Landers. His wispy facial hair tickles her ear as he slurs into it, words going straight into her eardrum at a volume that sends a shiver down her spine. Filled with blind panic, she struggles against him, body throwing whatever weight she has to try and wrestle things in her favour. His bony body presses into her back, trapping her between him and the truck in front of her. She can feel the outline of his handgun against her lower back. If she wasn’t too terrified to make noise, she’d whimper.

             “Bout time someone shut that pretty nigger mouth of yours, huh?” He laughs at himself.

For a man who appears a bag of bones, his strength is surprising. Her eyes dart around the parking lot, desperate to fall upon someone or something to help. Anyone, anything. There is no one. Only the outlines of vehicles meet her needing gaze. She can see the light of the CSPD in the distance. But it’s too far. They won’t see or hear her from here. Panic sets in.

            “I’m gonna teach you not to talk back,” his hand grapples with her coat, trying to find an entry point. “…nice…and slow.”

Every touch of his body against her own makes her feel sick, like bile rising in her mouth. Tears begin to run down her face as he slips his hand inside her coat. Underneath the fear, the panic, the sheer disgust, a plan is trying to form in her mind. She sucks in air fast through her mouth, knowing at any one moment a flex of his wrist could suffocate her for good. She only has one idea, and though the thought of it makes her sick, the alternative is infinitely worse. She arches her back against him, pressing her torso further toward the car while her hips grind backwards into him. He lets out a groan that she knows will never leave her memories.

            “You like that huh?” he hisses as she pushes her hips back again.

The tears are coming even more now, a full stream of them clouding her vision. She prays her plan will work. Her window of opportunity to act is seconds long as his hand loosens around her neck.

            _Now_.

She shoves her hands against the car, sending them both flying backwards into the one parked behind them. She hears something crack, and the car alarm sounds into the night, its intermittent screams splitting the quiet of the lot. She wastes no time, sending her elbow back into his sternum _hard_. The officer at the CSPD reception tuts to himself as he stands, peering through the blinds to find the source of the commotion. He lets out a withdrawn sigh.

            “Flip, isn’t that your car?” he calls over his shoulder.

Flip accompanies him at the window, dark eyes scanning the situation.

            “Fuckin’ vandals,” he utters to himself, grabbing his Sherpa jacket and heading out into the night.

The space between the cars is tight, as she is eager to get out of there _as soon as possible_. She surges forward, barely able to see her exit route in the strobing flashes of orange from the car’s headlights. The wing mirror of the car catches her abdomen as she scurries past, her feet stumbling over Landers’ outstretched legs. He grabs her shoulder as she tries to escape, wretched fingers yanking her backwards. As she turns her head to break free, his fist connects _hard_ with her face. She’s only ever had the shit knocked out of her once. In tenth grade. The other girl was a year older, if she remembers rightly, and clearly had a problem with her younger counterpart’s loud mouth. It was a short endeavour, and although she held her own, ultimately, she was the one left seeing stars in the principal’s office.

            This is different.

The pain is everywhere all at once. Her nose. Her eye. Her cheek. It’s so intense her brain nearly tricks her into thinking it doesn’t hurt at all. By the time the second punch lands, her nose is gushing with blood. The impact sends her head flying to the side like a ragdoll. Flip has barely finished wrapping his jacket around him by the time he’s crossing the parking lot, two figures only visible to him in the erratic strobes of the car’s headlights.

            “CSPD, quit fuckin’ around!” his booming baritone is normally enough to sort anything out.

The sound only just reaches Landers. It’s distant to him. He’s too wrapped up in what he’s doing. She’s on the floor now, almost out of consciousness. Her ears sound as if they’ve been submerged in water, her mind foggy. She can hear a sound in the distance. What, or who, it is, she will never know. As she watches Landers’ foot make it’s way to connect with her body, she funnels the only energy she has left into letting out the loudest scream she can muster.

            As soon as the sound hits Flip’s eardrums, he breaks into a sprint.

His long legs cover distance rapidly as he approaches the scene. The panic in his chest heightening with every stride. He tries to keep it under control. Assures himself he can ease whatever is happening at the scene. Were he not moving so fast, he’d reach for his gun. It’s the sound of the footsteps that stir Landers, the figure approaching them is a dark blur. He takes off without a second glance, darting into the night, leaving her behind without a second thought. He makes a beeline to the nearest set of trees, knowing from his own experience that his pursuer will soon lose sight of him. Flip is sweating under his thick layers by the time he reaches the scene. Before he can look. Before he can assess what’s going on. He knows. There’s a feeling in his gut, that awful, twisting pang that tells him his darkest hunch is true.

            It’s her.

She’s curled up on the ground, her bloody face almost unrecognisable in the dark. He drops to his knees instantly, hands hovering over her body for a moment with a mixture of panic and adrenaline. His fingers find her neck. Her pulse hammers against his skin. The breath he didn’t realise he was holding soars from his mouth. His eyes are instantly up, scanning for her night-time attacker but he can see nothing.

            “Hey, hey,” his voice is as tender as he can manage.

Even if she were conscious, his soft words would never be distinguishable above the howling of the siren. His hands cradle her head, lifting it off the dampness of the parking lot. He never imagined the first time he touched her to be like this. Her skull is almost slack in his hands, eyelids fluttering but not seeing.

            “It’s me, you’re safe now. It’s just me.” The words are as much for his benefit as they are for her. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Her coat is littered with dirt and blood as he wraps it tighter around her, trying to find a good enough hold on her slack body to lift her in the tiny space. His shoulders bang against both cars as he lifts her torso, wrapping her arms around his neck where they hang loosely. He scoops her legs around his sides the best he can and takes off back toward the station, the realisation, as well as her body, weighing him down as he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah. this chapter was v dark but (and i mean it) this is probably the darkest it's ever going to go. again, always seem to fall into writing things that are actually p difficult for me but i am proud of how this turned out and where it's going in terms of plot. i know i left it on a bit of a cliff hanger so i'm going to try and get the next chapter up asap!!
> 
> thank you aGAin to everyone who is reading, commenting, and leaving kudos on this. i refresh the fic every day and it means soooooo much that people are actually reading something i've written :) love u


	5. admittance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flip has known his own feelings for some time, but tonight turns all of that on it's head. As events unfold, he realises just how deep those feelings go. Whether he admits it is another matter.

He bursts into the reception with all the grace of a raging bull, booted feet almost kicking the door straight off its hinges. His lungs are heaving. Whether it’s from the adrenaline, the panic, or the running, he doesn’t know.

            “Go get Jimmy.” He orders the officer behind the counter. “Tell him to bring the first aid kit.”

The urgency of his words and set of his brow tell the officer not to dawdle. He escapes his desk imprisonment and disappears down a long, darkened hallway. They are left alone in the reception. Her body is almost limp in his hands as he lies her down across the small, worn futon pressed against the reception window. Through it, the orange light is still flashing into the night. Flip’s hand holds the side of her head, cheek cradled in his wide palm. The blood is dried into his skin, his shirt, his mind. His thumb strokes across her cheek, eyebrows knitting together with worry. He almost can’t bear to look at her. 

            “I’m gonna find who did this to you,” he promises her, words soft.

He means it with every fire of his being. Whoever it is. They’ll have him to answer to. The approaching footsteps behind him take his mind of revenge for the moment.  The officer returns with Jimmy, an older, skinny, grey-haired man with light eyes. A first aid kit is clutched tightly in his right hand. His mouth parts when he sees the scene in front of him.

            “Is that… _our_ girl?”

Something about the words anger Flip, and were she awake, they’d anger her too. She has never felt a part of this station. If anything, tonight has proved that. She is **not** _their_ girl. Still, Flip bites his tongue and nods.

            “What the fuck happened?”

            “I don’t know, I found her like this.” Flip answers his partner. “By the time I got there the attacker was gone.”

Jimmy shakes his head with disgust as he pulls out some wipes from the kit. Without thinking, Flip takes them from his hand. He smooths them across her face delicately, the red stain tinting her golden skin. Each application of the wipe brings her closer to the face Flip remembers, the face he craves. When her face is clear of blood, the wounds become more apparent and somehow that is even more disturbing. Her left eye puffs out beneath a deep gash above her brow, eye fused shut from the swelling. The bridge of her nose is marked by a large cut, though she’s lucky to have gotten away without breaking it. A split spans across the left side of her mouth, the skin on the inside sliced from the collision with her teeth. Her gums are lined red with the blood. Small grazes litter the left side of her face, patterns of the parking lot concrete etched into her skin. Flip notices as he brushes over the wounded areas, she flinches, features scrunching in momentary pain.

            “Hey, hey,” Flip soothes her, hand instinctively cupping her cheek, holding up her head. “You’re alright, we’re just cleaning you up.”

The care in his voice and his touch is not unnoticed to Jimmy, but he keeps his suspicions to himself. Flip watches her eyes open, squinting in the light of the station. He thinks for a moment he can see her expression change as she recognises him, but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone again. Under his watchful eye, Jimmy patches up her wounds. She murmurs occasionally, moving her head away from his helpful hands, but he continues anyway. Flip sees it as a good sign, at least she is semi-conscious.

            “What now?” Jimmy asks when it’s done.

Flip hesitates to answer. He knows exactly what he’s going to do, what he must do, but his partner will disapprove. He struggles to think of an alternative.

            “I’ll take her home with me. See if I can get some information out of her in the morning.”

And there it is, the look of disapproval. Jimmy’s mouth purses, strands of white hair contorting above his lip.

            “Don’t look at me like that. What do you expect me to do?” He barely pauses long enough for his partner to answer. “She shouldn’t be left on her own like that, and I don’t know where she lives anyway. It won’t be logged in the database.”

Jimmy holds his hands up in surrender, says nothing more. He has enough experience with Flip to know when to back down. A moment passes between them, neither man saying anything before Flip rises from his crouched position, knees feeling the ache when he finally straightens out again.

            “I owe you.” He says to Jimmy. “If you could… keep quiet about―”

If anyone found out he was taking her back to his place, it would cause problems for them both. Lord knows she doesn’t need anything else on her plate right now.

            “I know, I know.” He bats the idea away with his hand. “Secret’s safe with me. They always are.”

He gives her a final look on the futon before he heads back to their office, knowing a pile of files will be waiting for him when he gets there. _There’ll be no one to log them in the morning_ , he thinks idly. They are alone again. Flip turns to face her on the futon. She looks so fragile. He scoops her up with ease, body hugged to his chest as he makes a move for the door. As he walks out into the parking lot, he swears he can feel her cosy up to his warmth. As he eyes the few cars remaining in the lot, it occurs to him he didn’t even check if the alarm from earlier belonged to his car. He strains his eyes to find the vehicle belonging to him, realising with relief that it is untouched. Jamming keys into the door he places her down in the passenger seat, stripping himself of his jacket and wrapping it around her shivering figure. Her body is dwarfed by it, the woolly white collar of his Sherpa jacket contrasting sharply with her dark hair.

            The drive home is quiet. Roads smooth, sky dark.

His hands are level on the wheel, fingers firmly wrapped around the leather. He concentrates on the sound of the road beneath his tires, eyes only occasionally flicking to her across the seat from him. As they round a corner, she stirs. She tries to speak; ask where she is, who’s she’s with, but the words only come out as mumbles. Communication fails her.

            “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he soothes her.

He stretches a hand across the gap between them, his course palms finding her smooth fingers. He rubs his thumb across the back of her hand.

            “You’re safe now.”

 

* * *

 

Her mind is foggy when she wakes. Her body worn. Pain, throbbing pain. Everywhere. All at once. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth, the stretch of skin across her stomach. Everything hurts. The memory comes back to her in flashes. The feel of Landers’ fist against her face. The cut of his ring into his skin. Her scream before his foot connected with her abdomen. As if to take her mind off it, a searing pain slams the inside of her skull as she sits up in bed. She notices three things at once.

            She cannot see out of her left eye.

            She is still in yesterday’s clothes.

            The bedroom she has awoken in is not her own.

Trying to focus through the pain radiating her body, she passes her eye over her surroundings. The only light in the room comes from the window to her right. Thick, brown curtains block out most of the light, but in the dim she makes out the basic outline of a foreign bedroom. Large oak furnishings form the base of the room’s décor; a large wardrobe, a single three-drawer bedside table, another chest of draws to the right of the bed. Scattered atop the surfaces are a strange array of items: a silver cigarette case, three beer bottle caps, a broken watch strap, a half-full bottle of aftershave, loose change. The sheets underneath her on the bed are beige, a dense woollen blanket pulled over her still-clothed body. She’s knows whose room this is. She knew the moment she woke up, face planted in sheets that smell just like him, only stronger.

            But… how did she get here?

She tries to rake her mind over last night, begging her brain to remember anything post-beating. Its hazy. Like a near-forgotten childhood memory. An alarm. Hands on her. Wind through her hair. Flip’s voice. She can hear it’s sound but not make out the words. Pain on her face. Another man. Stinging. A car. Soothing words. His hand on hers…

            No. Surely not. Her mind is playing tricks.

  _He wouldn’t do that_ , she tells herself, _you’re imagining things_. Seeking answers, she swings her legs off the high bed, feet planted in plush carpet. Her eye falls upon a folded piece of paper on the bedside table, her name scrawled across the front in Flip’s messy hand.

_Brought you back last night after what happened. Didn’t know what else to do. Gone to work. Will be back at lunch to take you home. Eat if you need to._

His poor attempt at endearment makes her smile, the action bringing and instant stinging to her lips. His alarm clock reads 11:53. He’ll be back soon. Pain battering against her temples, she allows herself to stand, vision in her one good eye slipping as the pain reaches its peak. One foot after the other, she moves toward the door. Pushes her way past the plaid shirt hanging from the door, eager to get away from what feels like Flip’s private life. She’s right to think he wouldn’t like her snooping around. He is not unaccustomed to female company, but they never share her privilege of seeing his home. He likes to keep all aspects of his life separate. His work life, his home life, his sex life. They never mix. The fact she is in his home has already disrupted his work-home balance. He doesn’t dare to think about mixing her into his other life.

When he arrives home, she is sat on the worn fabric sofa, feet curled underneath her.

            “Hey,” he greets her tenderly, setting his keys down on the kitchen countertop, “you feeling any better?”

            “Not really.” It’s an understatement.

Her earlier, second-long glimpse in the bathroom mirror had reminded her she looked as bad as she felt. Dried, brown blood tarnishing the dressings on her forehead and nose. Blood lining the corners of her wounded mouth. A bulging, bruised excuse for a left eye drawing any attention away from the rest of her previously pretty face. The plum discolouration spans across her eye and down onto her cheekbone, the shape of a balled fist pressed into her skin.

            “I uh, brought you some lunch… I didn’t know if you’d be hungry or not.”

For the first time, she notices Flip seems nervous. Almost unsure. His words seem rushed, his glances to her fast and far between. Either that or he can’t bear to look at her tarnished face. He places a cardboard box on the table, opening it up as she joins him at the table. It’s nothing special; just an oily pizza from his local pizza joint, but it means a lot to her. Her good eye looks up to his height with gratitude. He passes her a smile. She slips down into a seat, claiming a juicy slice for herself while Flip places himself down opposite her. She hadn’t realised just how hungry she was, relief filling her as her mouth finally tastes of something other than her own irony blood. They eat in silence for the most part, both enjoying the other’s company. It is not unnoticed to her that he steals a look at her often, eyes passing over her with concern. When there is only one slice left in the box, he speaks.

            “I spoke to the Chief. He says he wants you to have the rest of the week off. Ron will cover your work.”

Though it’s already Wednesday, the thought of Chief being willing enough to give her time off seems suspicious to her. She can’t imagine he would have come to that conclusion without help. Nevertheless, she is grateful. The thought of entering the station again, seeing Landers’ face, having to deal with him and watch him sneer at the injuries he inflicted makes her feel sick to her stomach. Flip stands to clear the box from the table, crushing it between big palms before stuffing it in the trash. She gets up from the table, stands near the countertop, fingers running over the tile as she fights to hold back the question in her mind. _Don’t bit the hand that feeds you_ , she warns herself. It comes out anyway.

            “Why did you help me last night?” her words are quiet.

Flip leans back against the surface, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his head as he blows air out of his mouth. He avoids her gaze as he answers.

            “I’m a cop, that’s what we do.”

            Her words hit back fast. “No other cop would have done what you did for me.”

 _You’re really pushing it now_ , she thinks to herself. Although she’s not wrong. They both know that. He bites down on his lip, stares at his feet. They are two, maybe three paces away from her. He thinks over his answer, wonders whether he should lie. How much of last night does she remember? Had she seen his expression in the reception? Felt his tenderness when he lifted her? His caress of her hand in the car? His soothing words as he laid her down on the bed, smoothing her hair from her face? He chooses truth. It’s one thing denying it to himself, denying it to her is something else.

            “I don’t want to see you get hurt. I care about you.”

He knows his voice is quiet as he says the words, his normal confident baritone reduced to a breathy whisper. But the words feel like release, like a dumbbell lifted straight off his chest. His big, dark eyes flick up to her hesitantly, looking at something other than his own shoes for the first time since she started the interrogation. Her face bears the same shock and apprehension he feels in his gut. She can’t believe the words have come from his mouth. Can’t believe the things she’s been telling herself are true. The hazy memories from last night, days spent overthinking his actions, mornings in the mirror, it wasn’t all in her head. She lets a smile run wide across her face, ignoring the pain it brings her. She can’t help it. He leans forward, extends a long arm across to her, takes her hand in his.

            It’s the first time she’s properly felt his touch.

His warm palm encases the majority of her hand. His fingers caress her with a tenderness she wasn’t sure a man of his size could possess, his touch dancing across the back of her hand. It shouldn’t feel as right as it does.

            “Come on,” he ushers her, fingers interlocking with hers. “I’ll take you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeep !! there it is. they like each other. he sAId he cared about her wow i hope everyone else is an excited as i am. next chapter might officially be ~the~ chapter where it all steams up idk i haven't decided yet. again, thank you to everyone who's reading/commenting/kudos-ing! i now have over 100 hits which is super impressive!! hopefully more soon (currently trying to balance writing with my studies. it's not going well)


	6. sunday confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flip's late evening visits make two things very clear to him. First, his care for her is way past the platonic. Second, his quest to bring down her attacker may prove harder than it seems...

He visits her regularly after that, sometimes twice daily. His heavy knuckles colliding with her door once at lunch time, again in the evening. She always lets him in through the back door, too frightened of what the neighbours might think if they saw this hulking white man showing up at her house every day. Besides, she finds it amusing to watch him battle through the overgrown mess that is her backyard, the grass still clinging to his shoes when he reaches her living room. They just talk mostly. Though it is mainly her talking and him listening, he doesn’t mind. He prefers it that way. He’s never been much of a talker and he finds her much more interesting to listen to. She’s grateful for it too. He’s the only person she’s really herself around these days. Her college friends have distanced themselves from her, and she barely hears from her brother now he’s moved upstate. So, she takes time to soak up Flip’s company, even if it is just the occasional murmur here and there, or a question that lets her delve deeper into herself.

            He’s her closest friend, and yet… he’s not just a friend.

If he was just a friend, she wouldn’t have to remind herself not rush to the door when she hears him knock. If he was just a friend, she wouldn’t spend extra time in the mirror trying to do herself up before he arrived. If he was just a friend, the thought of him wouldn’t follow her to the bedroom at night. Though she’s accepted it, she still feels guilty. He’s a cop. It doesn’t matter how you dress it up: detective or not, he is a member of the Colorado Springs Police Department. Still, it’s easy to forget that every time she sees him. Every time he touches her, which is increasing recently. Only small things here and there. A thumb across her cheek when he arrives, a squeeze of her fingers when he leaves. He tries to be a gentleman about it, something he hasn’t done in a while. It’s hard, but he manages. It’s not like the other times. Hot flesh. Steamy windows. Names he doesn’t ask for.

            No. This is different.

He’s drawn to her. He seeks her company. Her voice. Her sense of humour that hits him just right after a long day of work. Her sharp comments that remind him not to step out of line. It’s those things that keep his eyes pressed to the clock at the end of every day. Of course, it helps that she looks the way she does. Wide eyes that see right into him. Plump lips that never leave his mind. A body that curves in all the right places. Petite enough that he can really―

            He stops himself like he often has to.

Where he can, he doesn’t allow himself to think of her like that. It feels wrong. She needs him now. Needs his support. His companionship. What she doesn’t need is him thinking about the feel of her body underneath his own.

            “So am I expecting a visit tomorrow or are weekends strictly off limits?”

Her question stirs him from his daydream. He’s never been more grateful to be interrupted. She turns round to face him, playful smile dancing on her lips. It’s taken her some time to adjust to, and she’s still finding it difficult, but she’s almost come to terms with her injuries. The cuts are already healing, and the swelling on her eye has reduced. Just the ugly discoloration remains. She can almost blink without being in pain. But it’s enough that she still feels slightly confident. Enough to push her limits with him. He scratches the back of his head, lets out a gentle laugh.

            “I’d love to but―”

She accepts the defeat quickly. Her confidence swatted down into the ground. She jokes it off.

            “I see. I don’t make the cut for Flip Zimmerman’s weekend.” Her voice is light though her insides feel heavy. “Maybe next week.”

            “Hold up a second,” he stands up from her sofa, crosses the small distance to her. “You didn’t let me finish.”

His sudden closeness makes the breath catch in her throat. She offers him a nod, unable to speak.

            “I’m on a stakeout tomorrow with Jimmy. I can’t miss it.”

His face is sincere. Big eyes looking into hers apologetically, some strands of his silky hair hanging down on either side. She daren’t look at him for too long, breath held in her lungs but not leaving.

            “I guess that’s a good excuse.” She exhales.

His hand finds hers, fingers snaking up her wrist. Thumb resting against her veins. She prays he can’t feel her pulse slamming against it. Heart spiralling into panic mode at the simplest of actions from him.

            “What about Sunday?”

His voice takes on a flirty tone she knows well now. A slightly higher intonation at the end that makes it seriously hard for her to think straight. She can feel his eyes on her face as she takes in a deep breath. _You’re busy_ , she curses herself, _you can’t give up Sundays. Don’t be stupid_.

            “I can’t. I got church on Sundays and my Mom’s making dinner.” She hates the words as they come from her mouth.

            “Mmm,” he murmurs, fingers still encircling her wrist, reluctant to let her go. “That’s too bad. I was hoping I’d get to see you before you start back on Monday.”

 _Don’t you dare_ , she warns, _let him miss you. You’re not free_.

            “You could always come round later?” She has no time to stop the words. “In the evening?”

He hates his mind for jumping to conclusions. He clears his throat, eyeing the contrast of his pale skin against her own. He needs to focus. He really does need to see her before she goes back to the station. They have things they need to discuss. If Jimmy finds out he’s spent all this time with her and still got no information on the incident, it’ll only confirm his suspicions. He doesn’t need that. Not now.

            “Only if you’re sure.”

Her eyes meet his, the orange light of her living room illuminating his skin in a way she’s never seen it before. Her eyes have fallen over his face for what feels like years before she answers with a nervous nod, mind given up on battling the decision.

            “Sounds like we got ourselves a plan.” He flashes her the same smirk she has grown to enjoy.

A one-sided twinge of the mouth from underneath his dark moustache, his eyes softening with the expression. His fingers pull away from her, dragging down her skin as he makes a move towards the door. Collecting a denim jacket from the door handle, he pulls the heavy material over himself, shrouding himself in faded blue. Though he stays later every night, she still feels a pang of disappointment when he leaves. Tomorrow will be her first full day without him. She has almost forgotten a life away from this. No work. Just Flip.

            “I should go. Early start tomorrow.” The words are a pain.

Though he doesn’t show it, leaving is always hard. She comes to join him by the door, toe to toe with him as her reluctant fingers grace the door’s handle. He tries to think of something to say as they stand there. Something witty. Something to pass the time. To distract his mind. But there is nothing. He has spent too long staring at her, her beauty. Even with her battle scars, he still can’t look away from her. Eyes pinned to her features as if his life were dependent on it. Her eyes fall from his, fixating on his lips, and back again. She stares at his face as if for the first time. The pattern of brown spots across his face, the tonality of his eyes, not fully brown, but part green now, she sees. She could lose track of time in those eyes. Already has. By the time she has noticed herself leaning forward, it’s too late to turn back.

            Not that she’d want to.

She presses her soft lips into his, surprised when they meet his sooner than expected. He’s leaning in to meet her too. His lips fold against the pressure of her own. Plump against plump. Her heart smashes against her chest, threatening to break free as she feels him deepen the kiss. She lets his lips do as they please with her, crushing against her own with varying intensity. The feel of his facial hair against her skin sends soft shivers down her spine. The tip of his tongue traces against her once or twice, begging to take in the taste of her, if only for a moment. It’s hard to control himself, he’s thought of it for so long. Now it’s here he’s unwilling to let it go. To let it pass without taking in as much as he can. The sweet taste of her. The delicateness of her mouth. Hand coming up to cradle her cheek before he can fight the instinct, his palm cups her, fingertips pressing against her jaw, wanting more of her. The sensation makes her jolt, only slightly, as his palm graces her bruising, a soft whine of pain slipping out from between her lips. The pain is momentary and she’s willing to ignore the accident until he pulls away, resting his forehead on her own. She feels his hot breath against her, the smell of him eclipsing her in a feeling she isn’t willing to sacrifice.

            “I should go.” The guilt of his mistake rises in his chest.

His hand overlaps hers on the door handle, slipping out into the night before she can stop him. The taste of him still smothered across her mouth.

 

* * *

 

Stakeout Saturdays.

Usually the most exciting part of his week, but this time it doesn’t even come close. He sits in the driver seat, big brows furrowed over dark eyes as he stares out of the window, elbow propping up his palm-cupped chin. Jimmy is talking, but the words are lost on him. Just background noise while he thinks to himself. He hasn’t stop thinking about last night since it happened. Can’t stop replaying the kiss in his mind. Every single detail on an endless loop. Her soft exhales against his mouth, sounds muffled by the join of their lips. The brush of her hair across his forehead, against his palm as he held her. Though he tries to focus on the positive, he can’t get her slight whimper of pain from his mind. The fact he caused her any pain, even for a moment, makes him furious with himself. _Fucking idiot_ , he scolds himself.

            “Are you even listening?” Jimmy sighs, wrinkled lips pursed.

Flip notices the change in his tone, removes his chin from his palm for the first time since they started to face his partner, looking at him confused.

            “No.” He admits flatly.

No point in lying. He reaches into the glovebox in front of Jimmy’s legs, pulling out a thick set of binoculars and pulling them to his eyes. Inspecting the scene in the distance, an exchange between two men.

            “You’re a piece of work today. You know that?” Jimmy tuts.

Flip shrugs, unbothered by his partners comment as he lowers the binoculars. A part of him feels bad, but he’s really not in the mood for talking today. Not when he knows he could be seeing her. Apologising for last night. Or even better… making it up to her. After some time passes, Jimmy asks him a question:

            “When was the last time you got laid?”

Flip greets him with an unimpressed grunt. He knows Flip too well, he forgets that sometimes. Flip turns to the windscreen, scowling eyes staring straight out of it. He can’t keep up the angry façade for long before he admits to himself that Jimmy’s right. He tries to cast his mind back to the last time. Three months? Four maybe? He was in a bar, downtown, minding his business after a long shift. Some busty brunette had shown him some attention, and he was too far gone and too much in need to turn her down. He doesn’t remember her face, only the feel of her hair bunched up in his hand as he took her from behind, body bent double in a back alley somewhere. It’s not his proudest encounter, but it is his last.

            “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

            “So I haven’t been laid in a while, there. Is that what you wanted to hear?” The frustration in his voice is evident.

Jimmy chuckles. There’s no room to dodge awkward questions on an eight-hour stakeout. He knows that too well; his older counterpart having backed him into a corner many a time. In the long run, he supposes his grateful for it. The other man knows him well, better than most even. He doesn’t allow people to get close to him, and while his bond with Jimmy is confined to mostly professional encounters, he does consider him a friend.

            “You’re losing your touch Flip.”

            “I am _not_ losing my damn touch.” He growls.

Jimmy shrugs. The car falls quiet for a few moments, both men unsure where the conversation is headed. As soon as Flip hears the inhale of breath before Jimmy speaks, he knows exactly what he’s about to say.

            “So, that girl from the records room… what’s that about?”

            Flip’s voice is monotone. “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Bullshit.”

Flip’s eyebrows dance above his eyes, rising high into his forehead with shock as he tucks his chin in at the expletive. One of his hands rests on the wheel of the car, the other tangled in his hair as he props his head up against his hand. His big body is almost stooped in the small confine of the car.

            “What exactly are you expecting to get out of this?” His intense eyes land on Jimmy for the first time.

He can feel the power of his stare boring into his cheek. Still, he continues. In the six years he’s been Flip’s partner, he’s learnt to push through the intimidation. It rarely ever works on him these days.

            “You haven’t been laid in a while… You’re spending a lot of time with that girl… I’m just trying to put the pieces together.”

            “Yeah well they’re not fitting together the way you think.” Flip mutters.

It’s going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

As with every week, church is a welcome break from her time at the station. A chance to be herself. To dress and talk freely, to sing and praise with her congregation. To not watch her pronunciation, mind her manners, make sure she is always the submissive woman they wish her to be. This sermon is especially important for her. She hangs on the pastor’s every word, hands clenched together, eyes screwed shut as he preaches the importance of God’s plan.

            “He has a plan for each and every one of you, and he will _provide_!” he shouts, hands raised in the air. “Through the darkness comes light!”

Those words resonate in her mind. This week has brought her enough darkness to see her through the year, and yet the light seems so few and far between. Stolen moments with Flip that only last seconds. She tries not to think of him while in church. Something about it feels off, wrong even. She’s not sure why. After the service, she finds herself at her weekly dinner with her mother. She had spent a half hour in the bathroom mirror before service that morning, desperately smearing her face with concealer and powder in a hurried attempt to cover up her wounds. Paired with her finest hat, no one at church had noticed. At least, if they did, they didn’t mention it. However now, across the table from the woman who knows her best, she wonders if she can tell her face looks different. Her mother’s eyes pass over her with concern before she lets out a sigh. It’s her own face she sees reflected back at her across the table, only younger, and riddled with a hurt she knows too well.

             “You know I don’t like you workin’ at that place.”

 _Oh I know_ , she thinks. She’d battled with herself for weeks over whether to tell her, and when she had, the biggest argument had followed. She’d never heard her shout like that before. Words that loud only come from a place of pain. And it’s not like she doesn’t understand why, of course she does. They’ve had their fair few shares of run-ins with the police, her mother especially. For her, going to work there feels like treason, no matter what the motivation. And even then, she’s her youngest child. She doesn’t see much of her son now he’s moved, and so seeing her like this feels like sacrificing everything all at once.

            “I know ma,” she pushes the vegetables around her plate with a fork, a few peas swimming lonely in a sea of gravy. “I have to. They need me.”

            “The _hell_ they do!” the older woman bangs her fist against the table, usually calm demeanour disturbed by her daughter’s words. “They could have sent anybody else to do what you’re doing. They have a whole organisation! It never had to be you.”

She stays quiet because she knows its true. She hates the weekly arguments. The tension her work brings. She wishes she had never let on sometimes. Though her mother is the only person who really understands her pain, the daily struggle. Even though she still withholds the majority of atrocities from her, she’d be lost without her counsel. The conversation lulls for a while before she stands, taking hers and her mother’s plate to the sink where she washes in silence. Afterwards, she collects her coat, pulls her into a huge hug and leaves. Trying to hold onto the comfort of her embrace on the walk home.

 

* * *

 

She does a lot of thinking that evening, about the sermon, her mother’s words, her motivations for going back to work the next day. She’s so distracted it takes her a second to process who could be knocking at this time of night when she first hears the sound. Of course, it’s him. When she opens the door, he’s there, waiting in the darkness, head slightly bowed to make it underneath the threshold of her back door. Her apprehension fades away when she sees his expression, that same smirk tugging at his lips in the dim lighting.

            “Evening,” he greets her, voice booming into her living room.

Though he appears calm, nerves spread through his body like wildfire. Each moment making him more worried as to what he should do, how she should act. He’s envisioned his arrival a frightful amount of times since they last met, his lips smashing into hers as soon as the door opened in every single one. Ultimately, he figured a more relaxed approach was probably better. He still doesn’t know how she feels about the kiss. He disappeared too quick to find out. They share some small talk on the sofa, bodies sinking into the terra cotta fabric. He, on the left side with his long arm stretched out to her, familiar fingers just inches from her face. And she, on the right side, feet folded under her like she always sits: compact, engaged. She’s still wearing her Sunday best, though church was some hours ago now. A plain, satin navy-blue dress that’s tight enough that he can see the direct outline of her body as she sits across from him. In the few seconds he steals to look at her, he can feel his heart throbbing with desire. Other parts of him too. He ignores that though.

            “So, what was it that was so important you just had to see me before work?” her arm is tucked underneath her hair, fingers resting around the back of her neck as her elbow props her up on the sofa’s back.

The daring smile across her face transfixes him. It’s the first time he’s seen her without her bruising. Though he knows it must be some makeup effect, he can’t seem to catch his breath. He’d almost forgotten what she looked like underneath her trauma. The little voice in his head tells him to close the distance between them, crush his lips against hers, trace his tongue across her mouth. Instead, he approaches the difficult topic he came here to do.

            “I… I need to talk to you about what happened Tuesday night.”

The second he finishes the sentence the smile is wiped right off her face, the pain of the events spread right across her features. Without thinking, he reaches his hand to hers, holding her in his palm.

            “I’m sorry. It’s just, there gonna want an official statement tomorrow and I figured it’ll be easier if I went over some of it with you beforehand, so it’s less…” the words catch in his mouth, “so it’s easier.”

She understands. If she hadn’t got so used to seeing him without thinking about the severity of the incident, she might appreciate his consideration more. He considers taking the notebook out of his jacket pocket, but he knows whatever she says will stick in his mind for eternity. He’s already made it his personal mission to find the bastard who did it and make him pay.

            “Is there anything you remember about the attacker?”

The word shocks her, and he must see it on her face because he holds her hand a little tighter, caring eyes never leaving her face. She knows what she wants to say. She wants to scream it, let him know exactly who it was and exactly what she wants to happen to him. But the words fight her every inch of the way. She opens her mouth, closes it, exhales, repeats. He is patient throughout the process, and for that, she is thankful.

            “I… I know who it was.”

Flip’s fingers had been running over her skin previously, soothing her into a confession, but after that, they stop dead in their tracks. He remembers to keep the scepticism out of his voice when he responds.  

            “That’s good we can work with that.” He resumes caressing her arm. “Take your time, we have all night.”

His words reassure her, and then it just comes out.

            “It was Patrolman Landers.”  

 _Fuck_ , Flip thinks, _that changes everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really like this chapter. their development, the snippets of their lives outside of the station and away from each other, the ~sexual tension~, i'm really happy with it. took a little bit longer than i expected (uni work is bogging me down already) but it signifies a huge turning point in the fic! plus, they kissed!!!! more ~sexy time~ on the way soon hopefully. hope you're enjoying and please leave any thoughts below :)


	7. the woman and the wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flip's determined to make Landers pay for what he did to her. He has a plan, but it'll mean her going face-to-face with her abuser once more with only the help of a wire. She's unsure it'll work, but she trusts him to keep her safe. And that's what counts.

By morning, he has hatched a plan. A sketchy plan, but a plan.

It’ll require everyone to cooperate and put their trust entirely in him, but he’s confident it’ll work. After last night, it has to. She had held onto him while he’d stroked her hair for the last hour of his visit, using his softest voice to assure her that no matter what, Landers would get his comeuppance. The plan _needs_ to work. The thought of what will happen if it doesn’t makes him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t want her to have to face Landers for a second more than necessary. He can’t let her down. At 9:02, he’s outside Chief Bridges’ office, knees bouncing up and down with nerves as he waits. When his superior finally arrives, he shoots up from the chair with an urgency that shocks the older man.

            “Something I can help you with, Zimmerman?” his voice is already unimpressed.

            “I uh, need to talk to you.”

The Chief gives him a stiff grunt, holding the door of his office open for the detective to enter. He takes the small wooden seat opposite Bridges’ desk, body confined to the tiny wooden frame. The older man lays his briefcase down on the table with a slam.

            “Tell me this isn’t about that girl from the records room,” he sighs.

            “She knows who attacked her.”

            “Good. That makes your job easier.” The Chief settles into the chair behind his desk, clasping his hands together. “Now why did you need to bring this to me specifically?”

Flip clears his throat, looking up from under his thick brows.

            “It was Landers.”

Bridges lets out a deep sigh and turns his face towards the window. The light pouring in illuminates every single crack and wrinkle in his aged skin. His blue eyes squint with the brightness of the morning.

            “She doesn’t have any proof. I can’t do anything without proof Flip, you know that.”

He doesn’t deny it because he doesn’t believe she’s lying. Landers has been a bad cop for a long time. He’s covered up enough of his scandals to know that by now. In the past, it was easy. Every cop has a dirty laundry they don’t want to air out,  hardly any of them are completely clean. Though Bridges doesn’t waste his time thinking about that. Landers is something else entirely. Some of his crimes sit heavily on even the Chief’s mind, if not for his own morality, for the reputation of his police department. His statement is enough to convince Flip things are going to work.

            “I can get proof.” The words are the most confident he’s sounded since he stepped into the office.

            “And how do you plan to do that?”

He’s not against the idea. In truth, it might actually be good for the CSPD in the long run. If the public found out about some of the crimes he’d committed, they’d never survive the corruption claims coming their way. Bridges is intrigued, to say in the least.

            “You know Landers he likes to talk. I figured if we could get her in the records room with a wire…” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence, Bridges is already sold.

            “Do what you have to do.” Bridges dismisses him with the wave of a hand.

            “Thank you, sir.”

He stands, makes a move to exit the room when he hears his name being called over his shoulder. He turns to face his boss one last time.

            “If you can get him on multiple counts, that works better for me.” Bridges orders. “Fucker’s been causing me problems far too long.”

He gives him a stiff nod, exiting the room without further comment. _Bingo_ , he thinks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When she returns to the building, it all comes back. _It’s too much_ , she thinks, _I can’t do it_. Though she trusts Flip with every cell in her body, something in her gut tells her this isn’t going to go the way she wants. She finds herself pausing on the sidewalk, just like old times. When she eventually finds the courage to go into the building, she pays the man behind the desk no mind as he gawks at her. The last time he saw her, he was sure she was going to die. Flip finds her before she can even make her way into the records room, a hand snaking round her back in the hall before he can stop it.

            “Come with me, I’ve got a plan.” His voice only reassures her a little.

She follows him through the darkened hallway, feet taking her into unknown territory. She has worked in the building for almost a month now, and yet she’s never seen where he spends most of his days. He drops his hand from behind her as they get close, approaching the clear glass office space that contains the rest of his colleagues. They pass through a door with intelligence written on the door in thick, block capitals. _Intelligent cops?_ she thinks, _yeah right_. The men all look up at her as she passes, but she ignores their eyes, following Flip hurriedly as he takes her into a small room at the back. Some filing cabinets line the side of the dark, narrow room, a single table placed in the middle with two chairs on the side of it. Flip positions himself over the glass panel in the door, blocking the light and any prying eyes on them. He pulls a contraption out of the back of his pocket, a thick black receiver and a thin wire connected to it, a small mic is attached at the end.

            “You want me to wear a wire?” she sounds horrified.

            “It’s only a small mic, no one will be able to tell. I promise. I’ve done it a thousand times” He places a hand on her arm, rubbing reassuringly.

            “What do you want me to do?”

This is the hard part. He knows she’ll say no, tell him she can’t do it, that she’s scared. And he’ll understand, of course, but he needs her to cooperate. For her own sake.

He gulps. “We’re gonna post you in the records room, like before, and we’ll record all your conversations with the officers. If Landers comes in, you can coax him into confessing what he did to you, and we can arrest him.”

He makes it sound so simple, though she can feel the nerves building in her chest. The little voice that tells her she can’t do it rising to a shout. She shakes her head, hair wigging around her face as she does so. He places both hands on her shoulders, massaging circles in her joints as he tries to soothe her.

            “We’ll be just in here the whole time. He won’t be able to do anything to you. I won’t let it happen, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” His words are strong.

            “You can’t promise that.” She’s only now realising just how frightened she is.

He places a finger under her chin, tilts her head up so she can look him right in the eyes as he speaks to her. Her beautiful brown eyes are brimming with tears, the discolouration on her face making another ghastly appearance now her makeup is washed off.

            “I can, and I am. I won’t let him hurt you.”

His hand snakes up to her face, cupping her cheek. She finds herself leaning into it, the warmth of his palm, the smell of his skin. She sucks in some breath, gives a small nod. He wipes away the first traces of tears with his thumb.

            “Name me a vegetable.”

            “What?” she scoffs.

And there it is, that beautiful smile that he’ll bend over backwards to see. All teeth and widespread lips. The giggle that escapes her mouth is like music to his ears.

            “I said name me a vegetable. Any vegetable. C’mon.” He’s smiling too now.

            “Um… cauliflower?” she’s still confused.

            “Nice choice.” He stoops down a bit so he’s at her eye level, face only inches from hers. “If at any point, you think he’s gonna hurt you, you say cauliflower into this mic and I’ll be right in there. You got that?”

Her eyes pass over his face, soaking up the closeness while she can. The smile that spreads across her lips is instinctive, the type of happiness that comes only from the comfort he brings her. She tries to remember this feeling now, it’s the only thing that’s going to carry her through the day.

            “I got it.” Her voice is as calm as it’s been. “So how does this work?”

Flip eases back up to his normal height, turning the device over in his hands, eyeing her outfit. He’s worn a wire numerous times, it’s like a part of his body now. The mic is always taped to his undershirt, concealed by whatever plaid top he chooses to wear that day. It’s a simple process. This, however, might prove a little more difficult.

            “We need to find a way to um, hide this in your clothes.” He clears his throat heartily, trying to hide the flush of his cheeks.

It feels wrong for him to be thinking of her the way he is so soon after her upset. But he can’t help it, this time it really _is_ part of the job. She’s wearing another one of those shirts he likes; a loud, floral pattern in a deep navy tone. The material is thin and hugs her shape, a frilly stitching circling her wrists while a neat collar sits at her neck. On her bottom lies a skirt to match, a high wasted hem that nips in at her tiny waist. It stops mid-way down her thigh, two neat pleats splitting it down the front. He knows it’s not the outfit that’s special: it’s her. Any other woman could wear her clothes and he wouldn’t even bat an eye. But the way she wears them holds his attention. She finds herself fidgeting under his intense eyes, something about them feels prying, but she doesn’t mind it. Almost likes it. 

            “You don’t have a sweater, do you?” he’s scratching above his brow when he asks her the question, mind totally frazzled with the idea of what’s about to happen if she doesn’t.

She gives him the response he is both craving and dreading: a shake of her head. _Stay calm Flip_ , he thinks, _stay_ _fucking calm_. He clears his throat again. Scratches his head. If he gets any more nervous there’ll be no throat left to clear and certainly nothing left to scratch. He turns over the device in his fingers slowly, choosing to look at it, rather than her. He tries to find the words to explain the source of his nerves to her, but she steals them from his mouth before he can. Worse still, she sounds amused.

            “You need the mic under my shirt, don’t you?”

He looks at her from under guilty brows, only to find she’s got the same smirk he often flashes her plastered across her face. Without word from him, she begins undoing the buttons on her top, steadily, but confidently. The speed of her fingers does something to him.

            “Shit,” he utters, raising a gigantic hand to cover his eyes.

The gentleman in him knows he shouldn’t look, but the man he knows he is wants front row seats.

            “You can look, I don’t mind.” She tells him without looking.

By the time he’s moved his hand, her shirt is four buttons down, and untucked from her skirt so he can see the beautiful strip of exposed skin down her front. If he’s not already breath taken by the sight of the black lace against her skin, floral pattern just loosely visible in the mesh, seeing her flick her eyes up to meet his in the small confine of the room almost sends him over the edge. The usually innocent glint is long since gone, fingers twitching on the final button of her shirt. His eyes finally fall upon her chest, perky and full in the entrapment that is her bra. He hadn’t realised how heavy his breath had become, every part of him hungry for the woman in front of him. And he looks it too. She can practically feel his eyes scanning over her body. She’s never wanted someone to want her like this. She reaches forward, takes his hand in her own, brings it towards her chest. His skin feels hot under her own.

            “I’ll let you do the honours,” her words are meant to sound confident, but they’re nothing more than a breathy whisper.

It takes him a minute to process what she means. He’s totally forgotten about the mic, the plan, Landers, everything. He’ll forget his name if she takes things any further. His hold on his self-control is wafer thin, it takes every ounce of strength he has not to press her back against the table, hoist up her legs, unbutton his jeans and… No. He can’t think about that. He’s had sex in some sketchy places, but this is a definite no-go. And anyway, she deserves better than a quick fuck in the back room. Miles better. He tries to mentally distance himself from the situation. To focus. Ignore her semi-naked body in front of him as he holds the mic in his hand, untangling the wire as he prepares to set it up. She watches him closely, surprised by her own excitement at the situation. Half of her wishes he would just give in and take her, here and now.

            It’s not a want anymore, it’s a need.

The room is all heavy breathing and pounding hearts as he traces the first few fingers across her skin, forefinger curling underneath the material of her bra to pull it forward as he slips the wire of the mic behind it, letting it snap back into place, securing the device. His hands are shaking with anticipation the whole time. This would be a lot easier if he didn’t have her cleavage pressed in his face. He inspects his handiwork. The tiny black mic peaking up between her perfect chest, the sight of it is something he knows he’ll never forget. The receiver for the mic still sits in his palm.

            “We uh,” he’s breathing so heavy he can barely get the words out, “we normally tuck these down the back.”

Her eyes meet his as she listens. _Fuck_ , he curses. He can feel himself pressing against the groin of his jeans, the sight of her exciting him more than he’d like to admit. Wordlessly, she turns 180˚ to face the wall previously behind her. She places the tips of her fingers on the desk in front of her, glad now that he cannot see her face, see her pining for him. Somehow, the view of her from the back is almost worse, the curve of her back though her skirt, the width of her hips, just centimetres in front of him. He takes a step forward, and she feels his excitement brush against her back. Instinctively, she pushes herself back onto him as he lifts up the back of her shirt, unzipping the beginnings of her skirt to make room for the receiver. The contact of her against him makes him shudder. It would only take a few adjustments for it to work. He knows she wants it, and lord knows he’s in _need_. It definitely wouldn’t take him long. She’d be out before anyone realised anything had happened. That is, if he’s quiet. And he doesn’t have a good track record with that. His hands are still shaking as he unzips the back of her skirt, just enough so that he can see the tip of her underwear. He daren’t look too closely. If he does, it’s over for both of them. He places the receiver flat against her skin, her body jolting forward with the shock of the cool plastic against her. She sucks in the air through her mouth in shock, the sound blocking out the grunt Flip lets out as she jolts against his groin.

            “You alright?” his voice wavers.

            “Yeah,” she breathes, “just cold.”

He doesn’t reply as he zips her back up, the plastic rectangle held tight between her back and the material of the skirt. The outline of its shape is obvious against her skirt. She’ll have to hide it. He peels himself away from her, taking a step back as he notifies her it’s done. When she turns, her eyes are on him again, deep and expectant.

            “We done?” she asks.

He gives her a stiff nod, feeling something in him sadden as he watches her redo her buttons. She does it considerably slower this time, he notices, allowing him to take in every second before her chest is sealed off to him for good. Or at least for now.

            “Right,” she concludes, “let’s get this over with.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day goes painfully slow. Every creak of the door builds her anxiety, only for it to die back down when it’s just another officer. It seems wrong for things to be going so routinely when there’s so much at stake. She never thought she would find herself wishing for Landers. This job is a continuous set of surprises, she should know that by now. Flip, Jimmy and Ron have been crammed into the back room for the past two hours, wire-lined headphones clasped around each of their ears. Loose smoke dances in the air as Flip chain smokes his way through the stress.

            “And how _exactly_ did you get this past the Chief?” Ron’s half-laughing when he pops the question.

Flip doesn’t even blink, brows pulled together as he listens through the words. He’s on his third cigarette already.

“He wants Landers as bad as I do.”

            “And why’s that?” Ron pries.

Ron and Jimmy exchange a look, the same smirk twitching against both of their lips. Again, Flip doesn’t even stir at his words.

            “He’s been a bad cop for a long time. Someone oughta do something about it.” He takes a long drag.

            “And you never wanted to do anything about it… until now?”

Jimmy stifles a chuckle at Ron’s ton, though Ron’s no longer laughing. Flip turns his head to him, momentarily shifting his focus away from the wire. He blows the smoke out through his nose.

            “You got a problem, rookie?” His tone is challenging.

            “I just don’t understand why you’d wait until now to take him down if you knew he was a problem this whole time.” Ron’s voice is flat, factual. He knows he has the upper hand. 

Flip takes his hand away from his mouth, resting the tips of his fingers on the table. Deep down, he has known the men who line the halls of these building are not good people for some time. He’s heard the stories, seen how they treat those under their jurisdiction. And Ron’s right. Until now, it hasn’t really disturbed him. He hasn’t allowed himself the time to think about it. To process what it’s like to be on the other side of the power trip. He hadn’t thought about how those people live their everyday lives until he was carrying her bloodied body into reception. Now? He thinks about it all the time. He wonders what she would think of him if she knew his previous ignorance. If she would still want to involve herself with him. He decides her initial decision to tar all cops with the same brush perhaps wasn’t so far-fetched a presumption. He draws in some breath before he prepares to speak again.

            “The CSPD is a family, we look out for each other.” Jimmy interrupts, sensing the growing tension.

Ron doesn’t miss a beat.

            “In my family we hold people accountable.” He retorts, eyes dead set on the men who have become his friends.

His words hang in the smoke-filled air, nothing but the sound of her breathing coming through the mic as they wait. Usually, someone would break the tension, say something funny, change the subject. They do not do that now. They know the seriousness of Ron’s words. The truth behind it. The detectives remain silent. In the records room, she nervously shuffles files, anything to pass the time. For the fifth time today, she wishes the wire was two way. She could really use Flip’s encouragement right about now. Just the sound of his voice would ease her nerves. The door creaks open behind her, a loud clap filling the room before she’s even had time to turn around.

            “Look what the cat dragged in!” Landers is laughing as he walks closer to the desk, hands pulled together in a sarcastic applause.

 _Cauliflower_ , she thinks, _fucking_ _cauliflower_. Her eyes daren’t raise to him, she keeps them on the ground, watching the cast of his shadow as it moves in the dim light, feet scuffing in an uneven pattern as he approaches her. She never wants to share his gaze again. Flip clenches his fist in the back room.

            “I heard you got the shit beaten out of that little body of yours,” the words are proud, it makes her sick. “It’s all round the station. They thought you was dead.”

The balance inside her shifts, anger momentarily weighing out the fear that fills her body. She bites down on the skin of her cheek, reminding herself this is about coaxing him into a confession, not airing out her personal feelings towards him.

            “You’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”

It’s the first time she’s looked at him since he entered. Brown pupils hard on his features though they fill her with disgust.

            “If I wanted you dead you would be. That big fucker Zimmerman can’t keep you safe forever.”

The thing that scares her most is she believes his words. He hadn’t wanted to kill her that night. He had wanted her to suffer. The mention of Flip’s name makes her shudder. How did he know? What had people been saying about him, about _her_ , behind their backs? Did they know about them… like _that_? Flip stirs in his chair, making a move to stand when Jimmy catches his arm, yanks him back down into his seat.

            “Hold your horses.” He warns him. “It’s not enough. We need more.”

Flip settles into his seat, leg bouncing with nerves. He palms his pocket in search of another cigarette.

            “Why didn’t you just finish me off when you had the chance?” her voice cracks mid-way through.

Landers rests his elbows on her desk, arms stretching out over the wood so his fingers can clasp as her side of the structure. He leans in so his face is only inches from hers. It takes every strength she has not to visibly shrink into herself at the proximity. To melt down into the ground and hide behind the false safety of her desk.

            “That’d be a waste.” The words are a hiss. “You may be a nigger but you’re a pretty one, and I’m not letting you go ‘til I get what I want.”

He reaches a decrepit hand towards her, uses the tips of his fingers to caress the curve of her breast. The sound causes a disruption on the mic, causing the men to wince and pull the headphones away from their ears.

            “He’s touching her. We need to get in there. Jimmy he’s fucking _touching_ her.” Flip is pleading now.

            “It’s not concrete. That won’t stand as evidence. We need more.”

Though Jimmy knows the words are true, it’s hurting him to sit there too. His apology is written across his eyes, though Flip doesn’t notice. He stands in the room, holding his headphones against his ears while he paces. The thought of her in there alone makes him want to punch something. He said he wouldn’t leave her. She jolts back with disgust, her mind so clouded by the situation she’s not even thinking about the fact he could have disturbed the wire. The simple feel of his hand brings the memory of that night back to her, memories flashing across her mind without consent. Her hand begins to tremble at the thought of it.

            “You can’t do things like that!” She snaps, voice loud in the quiet of the room. “You don’t get to treat people like they’re not human just because you’re a cop.”

            “ _I do whatever the fuck I want!_ ” The words are deafening.

She leans back to dodge the spit flying from his mouth, moisture lining her eyes as she lets fear take over her, no anger left to boost her confidence.

            “You see this badge? This is a free pass. I don’t enforce the law, I **_am_** the law. You have no power here. You free-thinking coons with your Martin Luther King and your marches, you think that changes things? That doesn’t change a fuckin’ thing! We own you. I’ve shot niggers half your age, twice your age, and no one in this damn precinct blinked an eye. You know why? Cause it’s my word that counts, and I’ll lie on every single incident report to make sure it stays that way. I could shoot your ass right now and no one would care. Just another black body on the street.”

The words hit her somewhere deep in her being; hurt like a bullet straight to the chest. She’s always known how cops think, but to hear it confessed to her upfront knocks the breath right out of her. To hear herself reduced to nothing more than a black body on the street rocks her whole existence. Those words will never leave her. They will haunt her dreams, cloud her judgment and rest her on her mind for an eternity.

            She feels numb.

Flip is up and out of his chair before Landers has even finished speaking, yanking his headphones from his ears and throwing them behind him. He bursts out of the room, through the office, down the halls with the spirit of a man possessed. He is. Ron is close behind him, uttering _sorry_ ’s and _my bad_ ’s to the officers he shoves on the way, desperate to keep up with his sprinting counterpart. When Flip bursts through the door, Landers recoils away from her, smile dropping from his face as if he already knows he’s been found out. Flip crosses the room in three huge steps, his palm finding Landers’ skull as he smashes it against the wooden desk, the crack of his nose lost in the thud that ensues.

            “You’re under arrest you slimy motherfucker.” He sputters to the man underneath him, fingers compressing into his skull.

It takes every ounce of his strength not to repeatedly slam his head into the wood until there is nothing left. Until the features that characterise this disgusting being are all but lost. He is momentarily lost in the anger before he realigns his priorities.

            “You alright?” Flip asks, breathless.

She doesn’t answer, only stares at the blood now spread across her station. Her sacred barrier between her and everything else, now tarnished. Ron watches her features: eyes looking but not seeing. Mouth open, but not speaking. He knows her pain, felt every ounce of the weight of Landers’ words. He seeks to comfort her, offer her an emotional blanket to cancel out all the hurt, but he has nothing. For her or himself.

            “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Landers sputters from under Flip’s hand.

He yanks his head up, ripping hairs from his skull as his bloodied face is revealed to her. The sight of it brings her back to earth.

            “She was wearing a wire asshole,” Flip growls into his ear. “We heard everything you said.”

Landers begins to chuckle, bloodied teeth spread wide in front of her.

            “He can’t protect yo―” he begins.

She throws all her weight forward into her arm as her fist lands squarely in his face, watching as his head lolls helplessly to the side, his eyes fluttering as he loses consciousness. She hasn’t punched anyone in years, and it’s a much harder punch than she expected, powered by all the pain and helplessness she and every other once of his victims had to face. Her own fury cancels out the ache it brings to her delicate knuckles. She breathes heavy through her nose, mind not totally sure what her body has just done. It’s the first time she’s acted solely on impulse since she’s been in the job, and it fills her with an incomparable gratification. To see him feel even a shred of the pain she has felt in this job satisfies something deep inside her. The men share the same open-mouthed stare, unable to fathom her instant change in temper. They should have never underestimated her. Flip can’t remember a time he’s been so overcome with pride. She’s the bravest person he knows.

            “Fuck you.” She shouts into Landers face. “It’s over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> revenge is sweeeeeeeeeeeet!! i've been thinking about how this chapter is gonna play out for a long time and i'm really happy with the finished product! i hope you guys are too! i think this chapter says a lot about her as a character, she's so brave and strong and no matter what's thrown at her she can always handle it even if she doesn't think she can. an icon! (also i hope you enjoyed the logan lucky cauliflower reference, that was legit one of my favourite parts of the film and the way adam says cauliflower always cracks me up). i also really enjoy the dynamic between ron, jimmy and flip so more of that coming through the next chapters. and i knowwwwwww i've been promising the nasty for a while and they still haven't done it but it's coming SOON i swear. next chapter cheeks are getting clapped idc


	8. too late to turn back now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of the day call for a celebration, and a visit to the bar for a few drinks with her favourite detective seems the right way to do it. As the night draws to a close, she seizes her opportunity to get what she's been waiting so long for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok bitches time to get smutty!!!

Though it has its setbacks, the day is filled with satisfaction. Watching Landers being dragged through the station under Flip’s heavy hand brings her a tangible revenge she knows she will never feel again. He drags him with a ferocity which barely allows the handcuffed officer to get his footing on the slippery floor before he is hoisted away again, his own bloodied nose leaving a trail of splatter behind him. The other cops regard him with a mixture of shock, disappointment and fear. _A message is being sent_ , she thinks, _do not fuck with me_. It’s the only time she’s ever had control over her own circumstances and she’s going to relish in it. She waits in the back room with Jimmy and Ron while Flip processes the arrest. Though she’s happy with the day’s verdict, she wishes for it to be over soon. To take her victory and leave.

            “You know, you’re about the bravest woman I ever met.” Ron admits with a wide grin.

He’s telling the truth too. The other men see her courage but don’t appreciate it. Don’t feel it the same way he does. He knows the weight of oppression, knows the strength it takes to stand up to it and say _no, not today_. And for that, he is in awe of her. He can only hope to draw strength from her, to hold up her fight.

            “Thanks,” she’s blushing when she answers. “I couldn’t have done it withou―”

She falls quiet as the door opens behind her, expecting to see Flip but seeing only the Chief in his place. Her body tenses, goes rigid with the apprehension of his words. She’s met the boss only once, at her initial interview for the job. He had looked upon her much the way he does now, like he is confused yet tolerant of her presence. His hard-set wrinkled features are unreadable to her he stands in the small confine of the room, body leaning back against the only exit.

            “I owe you an apology.” The words sound alien in his commanding tone.

She blinks at the words, unable to process who they are coming from. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Jimmy raise his eyebrows in surprise.

            “For too long the CSPD has been too tolerant of the unfair treatment of… people like yourself. I’m sorry you had to find that out the hard way. Getting rid of Landers was a step in the right direction. From now on, I want this station to run as a cohesive unit, no matter who it is that’s under its roof.”

Though his words are official and lacking any real show of emotion, she understands he’s at least _attempting_ to be compassionate. Still, she’d be naïve to think that he’s going to arrest every cop who treats her bad. He’d have no station left. Not wanting to give him too much praise, she nods her head stiffly in his direction.

            “I appreciate that.” There’s the faintest of smiles on her face.

Ron’s eyes dart between the two of them, waiting for someone to say something to ease the tension. The Chief looks at her, eyes locked on hers, waiting for the gratitude he was expecting. It doesn’t come. Underneath his wounded ego, he can make sense of her reluctance. He mirrors her nod, turns on his heel and leaves the room without further comment. The second the door’s latch has closed, Jimmy claps his hands together and lets out a laugh.

            “Oh, he definitely didn’t like that.” Jimmy chuckles.

            “You looked him dead in the eye and said screw your apology!” Ron jeers, white teeth flashing underneath his full lips.

She laughs too, shoulders bouncing with the motion as she embraces the ease of their company. Though she’s only been around the men a few times, they treat her like one of her own and for the first time she feels like she might belong in the station. It’s not long before Jimmy pipes up and asks her a question that solidifies her friend status.

            “We’re thinking of hittin’ up a few bars in town to celebrate tonight. You wanna come?” His tone is upbeat. “After all, it’s you who should be celebratin’.” 

She knows the answer before he’s finished the question, but she holds it in her mind for a moment, feigning deliberation. She knows who he means by we, and the thought of meeting him outside work, outside her own home, gets her an even mix of nervous and excited.

            “Alright,” her smile is wide.

 

* * *

 

When Flip arrives at her door, only a second past eight, he’s breathless at the woman he finds behind it. She’s more made up than he’s ever seen her: hair curled, lashes long, lips glossy. All indication that she might once have been a victim, might once have been hurt at the hands of a man he knew is gone. A burgundy woollen dress covers her body in the late October night, hem just stopping at her thigh. Her curves are undeniable against the material, and he has to strain to keep his eyes away from them. Her hair forms a dark, curly frame around her face and his eyes pour over every inch of it in awe. The shape of her mouth clears his mind of thought, the plumpness of her lips, gloss rendering them shiny and wet.

            “Evening Zimmerman,” she smiles, smug.

The way they move when she speaks to him makes his mind wander. How much would that gloss smudge if he were to kiss her right now? To take her lips between his roughly before they get to his car. It’s a fifteen-minute drive before they get to the bar. That’s more than enough time to re-apply.

            “You look…” he trails off, unsure where he’s taking that sentence.

_Beautiful? Sexy? Like everything I’ve ever wanted?_

            “Stunning.” He manages, words low in the evening air.

            “Thanks.” She blushes under his gaze, pulling a coat around herself. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

It’s the smartest she’s ever seen him. A black shirt tucked into those same, thick dark jeans he wears every few days at the station. His wide hips are held in by a thick brown belt, gold buckle standing out against all the dark colours of his outfit. He looks good in black. _He looks good next to it too_ , she thinks, heat rising in her cheeks as she steps out into the night to join him. The clunky heels on her feet mean she’s level with his nose tonight, a personal best, considering her normal shoes only bring her to his neck at best. His eyes are softer than she’s ever seen them, in utter wonder of her beauty. She has him right where she wants him: in the palm of her hand.

            “Shall we?” Her voice is chipper, fuelled by the attention.

She sticks her hands into her coat pockets, hopping down the steps as they head towards his car. He follows behind her, blowing air out through his cheeks. _Christ_ , he thinks. On the drive to the bar, he keeps the radio quiet, trying to work out exactly how he’s going to phrase things in his head.

            “I didn’t give you enough credit for earlier, today must have been really hard for you but… but you carried on. Took it all in your stride. I’m proud of y’know. You did real good.”

She’ll never realise how big of a statement those words are to him. Proud. He hasn’t said that word since his brother. And that was a long time ago. So far now he’s pushed it right to the back of his mind. But he means it, really means it. She’s always downplayed her experiences to him, never wanting to seem whiny, but hearing the men talk to her today really stirred something in him. That men that sit in his office, share the same coffee machine, piss next to him and offer friendly small talk could be so cruel to her. It makes his fingers grip hard against the wheel to think about it. It changes his whole world view.

            “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

She stares at his profile from the passenger seat, his strong jaw, long nose and deep-set brow focused on the road. It’s a face she can’t help but admire. Her hand stretches across the gap between them, cupping his hand in her own, her soft skin rested against his. She hates to dwell on the events of earlier when there’s so much good ahead, but she can’t help it. He had really been there for her today, brought her back from what felt like her lowest point. His presence in her life, his impact, is expanding way past anything she ever thought.

            “And uh, if you don’t mind me saying… watching you punch him earlier today was… impressive, to say the least.” He clears his throat, hiding a smile.

            She laughs back. “What can I say? He had it comin’.”

When they pull up to the bar, he’s quick to circle the vehicle and open the door for her before she can escape from the jammed seat belt. She flashes him a smile after yanking herself free from the contraption. _A gentlemen? Really?_ she wonders. She didn’t have Flip down as that type. Maybe she underestimates him. They find Jimmy and Ron with ease, crammed into a circular booth on the left side of the dancefloor. Her heels are drowned out by the music as she walks over, Flip behind her like a protective bodyguard, eyes on the men who dare to look at her.

            “Well damn, you really showed up huh?” Ron beams as she takes off her coat and slides down into the orange padded booth next to him.

She shrugs her shoulder smugly, soaking up the positive attention while she can get it. Jimmy’s eyes meet with Flip the second she’s out of her coat, eyebrows raising at him amusedly. Flip hides his smile, clenching his jaw as he takes out his wallet.

            “What d’you fancy?” Something about the way his voice sounds when he speaks to her makes her want him even more.

            “Zimmerman, are you buying drinks?” Jimmy mocks. “Are you feelin’ alright son?”

Without moving his eyes from hers, he flips his middle finger up at Jimmy, earning a hearty laugh in response.

            “Brandy please,” her voice is still soft over the music, “Thanks Flip.”

He disappears with a nod, leaving her alone with the two men.

            “You really got that boy around your finger don’t cha?” Jimmy teases, taking a sip of his beer.

            “It’s just a drink, he’s just being kind.” She dismisses, growing shy as the topic of conversation falls on her and the detective.

She rubs behind the back of her neck with her hand, hair falling down over her face to hide her blush.

            Ron senses her nerves. “Quit quzzin’ the girl Jimmy. Let her be.”

            “I’m just sayin’! I ain’t never seen him treat a girl the way he treats you.”

Though the words only confirm what she already thought, she still feels a flutter of excitement in her stomach. He likes her. She knows that now. So why does every reminder still make her heart speed up? She tries to quell her nerves as he comes back to the table, her drink in his left hand, his own beer clutched in his right. He slips into the booth with ease, big body sandwiching her between himself and Ron. As soon as the drinks are down on the table, his arm snakes up around her, resting on the top of the booth behind her head, fingers just stopping short of Ron’s shoulder. She daren’t look up from her drink as she takes a sip, knowing there’s bound to be looks from across the table as she tries not to lean too much into his body.

            “So what, we just gonna sit here in silence?” Flip probes.

She notices the smallest of grins on his face as he lifts the beer bottle to his lips, downing a large gulp all in one.

            “Oh, so you choose now to be a talker,” Ron rolls his eyes sarcastically. “Typical Flip.”

            “Give it a rest rookie,” Flip jokes. “I got you the detective title remember?”

He raises a single dark eyebrow, egging the other man on to challenge him. It’s harmless talk, the predictable poking-fun-at-each-other humour that seems to follow men and alcohol. It flows for a while, and she stick her two cents in whenever she can, earning a proud laugh from Flip each time. Even when it’s aimed at him. Though she mainly spends her time laughing and listening, stealing glances at him when she can. She’s feeling looser by the time she hears the opening chords of her favourite song, a string quartet filling the speakers of the room.

            “Oh I love this song!” She claps her hands together, smile beaming.

Flip’s already dreading the next words out of her mouth as he watches her shoulders sway along to the opening lyrics.

            “Wanna dance detective?” the words are smooth from her lips.

Smooth enough that he considers saying yes. Only for a second. He has never and will never be a dancer. He’s too big. Too clunky. Too rhythmless. If he has any chance of keeping her interested it means staying absolutely still.

            “I don’t dance.” His answer is firm.

The moment he sees the smile on her face falter he knows he’s made the wrong decision. Watching as the corners of her mouth ease, eyes dropping with the disappointment. It’s the first time he’s turned her down. She doesn’t have time to think about it before Ron is shoving Jimmy out of the booth.

            “This is an assignment for Detective Stallworth.”

He takes her hand, easing her up round the circle table and to the dancefloor. She looks over her shoulder at Flip, still somehow feeling guilty, as if he should be the one leading her away. It all fades away when she feels the beat of the music around her. Her shoulders and hips sway to the rhythm, curves pressing against the material of her dress. She moves with a natural fluency, moves feeding into each other so well it’s hard to believe it isn’t pre-planned. Ron watches her with a constant smile, happy to see there’s someone to keep up with―maybe even challenge―his moves. The singer’s voice fills the room.

_♪_ _It’s too late, to turn back now_ _♪_ _…_

            “That shouldda been you.”

Flip clutches the neck of his beer bottle and lets out a sigh, deciding it’s better to agree with Jimmy than to fight him now. It’s only the two of them. He can afford to give.

            “I can’t do any of that.” He gestures to Ron.

He spins her round, curling her body close to his before spinning her back out again. She throws her head back in laughter, sound lost to the remaining detectives as they swig from their drinks.

            “I couldn’t have given her what she wanted.” He swigs hard.

_♪_ _It’s too late, to turn back now_ _♪_ _…_

            “What she wanted was you.”

Flip tries not to let himself dwell on his partner’s words. Watching instead as the dancefloor fills steadily, a procession of people following her moves to the floor. Flip only catches glances of her through the moving bodies and cranes his neck to see her the best he can. The shape of her is mesmerising to him. Though she moves with a sensuality to her, the sheer knowledge that’s its her, in that dress, with those curves, makes him yearn for her. To be close to her, to hold her, feel her skin on his as she dances. She sings along to the lyrics with Ron, seemingly unaware of his need as their hands join on the floor, each shimmying in motion. He feels a pang of jealousy in his chest. Not at their closeness, but at their ease. He knows he could never possess the confidence, the assurance of moves to dance with a woman like her and keep up. He’s not the only once watching her, soaking up her vibrance.

_♪_ _I wouldn't mind it if I knew she really loved me too, but I hate to think that I'm in love alone and there's nothing that I can do_ _♪_ _…_

He thinks she’s forgotten about him, when he sees her spin her body around, hips winding side to side as she bends her legs to ease her body down to the sound. Her eyes lock dead onto his through the crowd. Big brown pupils holding his gripping every ounce of his attention. Everything else ceases to matter except her and the song.

            _♪_ _It’s too late, to turn back now. I believe, I believe, I believe I’m falling in love_ _♪_ _…_

He’s never been this transfixed by anyone.

            “Lyrics sounding a little close to home?” Jimmy’s words cut through his daydream.

            “Piss off Jimmy.”

 

* * *

 

On the drive home they talk and laugh about the night, a smile never far from either of their faces. She can’t take her eyes off his smile. His whole face changes, eyes disappearing into kind slits, mouth forming a wide grin that wrinkles his cheeks. He’s a different man when he smiles, when he’s with her. He knows that too. He likes himself more when he’s around her. Time with her is easy. Her hand in his, they walk around the back of the houses on her street, stiffing their laughs as she hops through the grass, eager to keep her good shoes clean in the darkness of the night. The alcohol in her system doesn’t do as much to keep her warm as she’d like, and she moves with speed, hand dragging Flip behind her as she giggles. He feels like a teenager again.

            “Has anyone ever told you you’re an amazing dancer?” He pipes up as they walk up the steps to her door, somewhat out of breath from their backyard dash.

She smiles as she places her keys in the door, leaves them in the lock as she turns around to look at him.

            “Quite a few people actually.” She flashes him that brilliant white smile of hers.

She’s not drunk. She hasn’t had enough to be drunk. To be drunk off one brandy and a glass of lemonade would be an insult to her college career. Loose is the word she would use. A happy medium. Tipsy enough that she confidently says things she would normally keep to herself, but sober enough that she still feels a pang of regret when they leave her lips. He chuckles at her kind words, head nodding in agreement.

            “Maybe I could give you some lessons.” She closes the distance between them.

Her eyes look at up to him knowingly, big, brown and expectant. He can feel his breath hitch in his throat at the closeness between them, the tone in her voice. He knows what she wants. He wants it too. Has done for a long time now.

            “I’d like that.” His voice is a whisper.

Her hands find their way to between the buttons of his coat, fingers hooking into the fabric to pull him impossibly closer to her. He can see the need in her eyes, deep pits of desire right in front of him. He closes the distance between their lips. The kiss is instantly more intense than anything they’ve ever shared, the pressure of her lips against his own making him lean back. He lets out an involuntary moan as her tongue traces the shape of his lips, meets with his own, dances with it. Her hands are on either side of his face, pulling him towards her as if he’s not already close enough. He backs her into the door with a loud thud as her head collides with the surface. He makes a move to pull away, ask if she’s alright, apologise, but her mouth follows him back, reluctant to leave him for anything other than air. He can feel the need inside him growing, and he knows deep in his gut that tonight it’s finally going to happen.

Her fingers jangle with the keys on the door and the two of them stumble back hard as it opens, swinging wide open before he slams it with a quick extension of his arm. She pushes him down onto the sofa, his body slumping down into the furniture as he watches her kick off her shoes and take off her coat in front of him, eyes never leaving him. He’s not even sure he’s breathing by the time she straddles him, bare legs on either side of his hips. His hands snake up her body as their lips meet again, running down the shape of her back before taking a handful of her ass. She moans against his hot mouth, pressing back into his touch. She’s imagined this a thousand times in her head, each of them taking their time to pleasure one another but in the moment they have no patience. Only minutes have passed before he is lifting her up, firm hands on either of her cheeks as he carries her to her bedroom.

He drops her onto the bed hurriedly, big hands working on his shirt by the time she’s sat up to look at him, still clothed but legs splayed apart. His hands are shaking at the sight of her. She leans forward, eager fingers on his belt as he pulls off his white undershirt. She takes a moment to admire his body. It’s the first time she’s seen him in anything other than a shirt, his wide frame exposed to her in all its glory. His muscled front is just as she’d imagined it, large pecs level with her eyes as she undoes the buttons on his jeans, feeling his need for her through the material. When she’s removed his boxers, she feels her breath catch in her throat at the size of him. It’s only right for a man his size but she can’t help but stare for a moment, mind wondering how she’s ever going to take him.

            “Go on baby,” he encourages her, fingers soft in her hair as he eases her towards him. He doesn’t even realise he calls her baby, arousal dragging the word from his lips.

From the moment her soft lips first meet him it’s bliss. Tongue wet and warm on the head, swirling round in a motion that forces a yelp from his throat, eyes screwed shut at the feel of her. She holds him at the base, mouth gradually taking more of him as she picks up a pace. His mouth falls open at the sensation, unable to string words together as she works on him, soft noises falling from his mouth instead. He can think of nothing but the feel of her lips against his skin. Each flick of her tongue brings him closer to the edge, drives him insane.  It’s been a while since she’s pleasured a man like this, but she takes it in her stride, enjoys the sweet taste of him in her mouth, the feel of his hand in her hair. Her eyes begin to water as she forces him ever deeper into her, nose just scraping his pelvis as she takes all of him between her lips.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” he moans, sensation bringing him dangerously close to the edge.

He opens his eyes for the first time since she begun, looking down on her as she continues to pleasure him, splayed out on all fours on the bed, her right hand massaging up and down his shaft. He’s never wanted to save a moment more in his life. She looks up at him, dark eyes losing all the innocence they may have possessed before. As if reading his mind, she sits up on the bed, pulls her dress off over her head, revealing her body to him.

            _Holy shit_ , he thinks.

He can feel himself seeping at the sight of her, her body is the most perfect he’s ever seen. Her perky chest is contained by a burgundy lace bra, colour complimenting her skin beautifully. Her body winds in, a tiny waist leading down to thick hips, a matching thong shields her from his prying eyes. Her skin is soft and smooth, body shapely and full in every way he’s dared to imagine and more. The way he looks at her feels hungry, and she soaks every second of it up, enjoying the intensity of his eyes on her. He presses her back into the bed, body suspended above hers by one muscled arm as his experienced fingers unhook the fastening of her bra. He tosses it to the side carelessly before his lips travel down from her neck, across her collarbones and to the tender skin of her nipple. His tongue traces her skin in small circles, lips caressing her with a gentleness she didn’t know he had. Soft moans leave her mouth as he works on her, urging him on to continue. She feels his fingers begin to rub against the fabric of her underwear, material already soaked through form her excitement. He hooks his fingers through the material and drags it off with one hand. She doesn’t let her mind wander into how it is he can do this so well. The tip of his finger presses against her folds, teasing her entrance as if asking permission. He slips in with ease, finger curling up inside her as her moans reach a peak.

            “You feel so good,” he moans against her, lips coming back up to patter kisses across her neck.

She can only whimper in response, the feel of his fingers inside her clouding her ability to speak. She can feel her core tightening, the sensation inside her building and building as he increases speed, nibbles at her neck, runs his tongue along her jaw. Her eyes screw shut with the feel of him, eyebrows knitting together, teeth biting deep into her lip.

            “ _Please_ ,” is the only word she manages, when she’s sure she’s ready for him.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes his still hard shaft in his hand, rubs the tip against her entrance slowly, teasing her, feeling her moisture against him.

            “Flip,” she urges, “please,”

She’s never been reduced to begging before, but in this situation she can’t help it. She needs him. _Now_. Feels an ache deep in her insides that only he can satisfy. He presses into her gently, watching as her face scrunches up as he stretches her. She breathes deeply, mouth wide open as he eases himself into her, waiting for her warm flesh to accommodate him. He cups her face, palm supporting her head so she can watch as he presses into her over and over again. He feels her loosen around him and picks up the pace, throws his head back as the sensation of her against him becomes too much to handle. She lets out a continuous string of moans, mind not even conscious of what is coming from her mouth. He places his thumb in the hot warmth of her mouth, stares her down with dark eyes as he pounds her.

            “You’re so tight,” he growls, the feel of her hot insides against him is like heaven.  

Her eyes are screwed shut as he picks up pace, body almost unable to process how good it feels. She feels so _full_ , like he’s making the room in her body just for him. Each thrust brings her closer to her climax, and she feels the muscles tighten in her stomach, coiled so tight she’s sure she can’t hold onto them for another second.

            “That’s it baby, that’s it,” he moans, words spilling out of his mouth without thought.

He grips the back of her thighs, pushes her legs open wide, forcing them against her to thrust into her harder, deeper. She feels herself begin to uncoil, the tightness of her muscles loosening with an orgasm so strong she feels her whole body shudder, like the pleasure is spreading out to her whole body from somewhere deep inside her. It’s the only time she’s silent, mouth unable to produce noise in the moment.

            “Oh God. Fuck―”

His grip on his self-control disappears as she tightens around him, his own orgasm gushing out to paint her insides. She lies there, breathless at the warm sensation now filling her. Mind whirring as she overcomes what she knows to be the biggest orgasm of her life. His heavy body collapses on top of her, their sweat bonding them together. There’s no turning back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i loovvvvvvvvved writing this chapter. the scene of her and ron in the bar? wow, iconic. i love them so much as a friendship pairing and genuinely that scene in the film spoke to me in so many ways. i've played the song on itunes so many times i'm convinced the hit counter is broken. it always makes me feel so joyous and i HAD to incorporate it into the fic somehow. but also !!! they fucked !!! finally. it's my first time writing smut but i'm really pleased with the way it went and i hope you guys are too :) feel free to comment your thoughts, i'm always open to listen!


	9. damn it zimmerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After one night quickly turns into two, she begins to wonder how long they can keep up the pretence that what they share is nothing more than casual sex. At least in the meantime there's fun to be had.

She wakes alone that morning. Body sprawled face down in her bed sheets, silk dressing gown wrapped loosely around her naked body. It’s not a surprise. Flip had told her he’d have an early start the next day and he’d only wake her up in the morning if he stayed. She’d been sure that was something he just told women, but the way he’d acted was different. Lying naked on her bed, head on his chest, hand in her hair. Confessing his lust for her. Dragging his feet to her shower, coming straight back to kiss her as soon as he was clean, still wet hands on either side of her face as his tongue explored her. He dressed with the haste of a man who had nowhere to be. Fingers achingly slow on his buttons, eyes never far from hers. They had stood in the doorway of her home for a good fifteen minutes, mouths pressed to each other, legs shivering in the cold before he had finally left, walking backwards down the steps. She’s sure she can still taste him in the morning.

She feels a dull ache in her hips as she hobbles to work that morning, unable to walk at her normal pace. The sensation brings a smirk to her face. _Damn it Zimmerman_ , she curses, knowing deep down she’s proud of the feeling. As soon as she’s inside the station she’s already thinking about when she’s going to see him. About what he’ll say to her. Whether they can look at each other the same knowing they were together under her sheets less than twelve hours ago. Though the seconds pass slow today, and she doesn’t see him for some time. Her ego doesn’t allow her to debate it for too long, though she does periodically wonder whether he’s avoiding her. Regretting last night’s encounter. Trying to separate her from his day job. She concludes it doesn’t matter. He will need something sooner or later, and he’ll be back. He’ll see her whether he likes it or not.

In truth, it’s not that he’s avoiding her at all, simply consumed by his work. When he arrives that morning, fresh-faced and coffee in hand, he’s ready for whatever the day throws at him. Case files. Report typing. Assignment plans. He can tackle it all. Mind and body rejuvenated, he feels like a new man. The other men pick up on it straight away, Ron and Jimmy exchanging a knowing look. He hasn’t called either of them an asshole all day, not even muttered the word fuck once. Something’s _got_ to be up with him. And they know what.

            “Feelin’ tired Zimmerman? That’s your fourth coffee today.” Ron comments as Flip settles back down at his desk.

Flip takes a long sip, fluid warm against his insides as he buys himself some time. In truth, he rejuvenation had only lasted the morning. By the time two o’clock rolls round, he’s starting to feel the strain in his body. The dull ache in his lower back and thighs, worked hard by last night’s agenda. By the time he’s lowered his cup, he’s still not sure he’s got an answer.

            “We left the bar pretty late, I can’t keep up with you twenty-somethings anymore.” His answer isn’t convincing.

            “You pull shifts later than that three times a week and it never seems to bother you.” Ron says flatly.

Flip places his coffee cup down on his desk with a sigh.

            “What _exactly_ are you getting at Stallworth?” Flip sounds bored.

            “I’m just sayin’ I―”

            “We know you’re screwin’ that girl from the records room.” Jimmy interjects, seemingly annoyed with all the bush-beating.

Ron’s eyes widen, mouth quivering as he holds back a laugh. Flip feels his face grow hot, the closest he’s come to a blush in years. He knows the seconds to deny the claim are running out as he stares at his older partner’s unblinking eyes. He bites down on his lip, foot tapping underneath his desk.

            “What difference does it make to you if I am?” his voice is much more confident than he sounds.

            “Whew!” Ron squeals, clapping his hands together loud in their small office. “The cat’s out of the bag now!”

Jimmy’s face breaks into a smile, the two men looking on at Flip with an amusement that he doesn’t seem to share.

            “Will you keep your voice down?!” Flip snaps, leaning forward over his desk towards the detective, who doesn’t seem to care.

            “Ain’t a man in this whole damn station that don’t know she’s yours.” Ron’s still laughing.

            “She’s not mine, we’re just―” he rubs a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

Ron and Jimmy share an accomplished look, hands stretching across their desks to fist bump one another. Knowing something is one thing, hearing Flip admit it is another entirely.

            “So… was she good?” Jimmy probes after a moment.

Flip removes his hand from his face, intense dark eyes peering out from underneath his palm.

            “It was fucking sensational. Now can we talk about something else?”

 

* * *

 

She can’t control the excitement in her gut when he first steps through the door, wide smirk painted right across his handsome face. He doesn’t break her eye contact in the four steps it takes him to reach her desk, hands palm down on the cool wooden surface.

            “Afternoon,” his voice is low in the stuffy room.

The last time she heard that tone from him he was moaning her name. It feels strange to see him here in front of her, so close she can touch him but knowing she can’t. She licks her lips unknowingly.

            “Afternoon Detective,” her voice is oozing with want.

He’s not intending to talk to her dirty. In fact, he had entered the room with the intention of having a completely innocent conversation. Letting her know that last night wasn’t just some steamy error, he wants her. Not just like that, but all the time. But the way she looks, the lick of her lips, tone of her voice, drags it out of him. Pulls the dirty thoughts from his mind right down to his lips.

            “You know,” he rests his elbows on the desk in front of her, “I haven’t stopped thinking about last night. The way you opened up for me… On your knees…”

He trails off, eyes flicking up to meet hers. Just the words from his mouth makes her skin hot, her heart speed at the thought of last night. Of _him_. It takes a moment for her to collect herself, to gather what she wants to say.

            “So I hear,” she smirks, “little birdy tells me you thought I was sensational.”

She watches his face drop with embarrassment, that same heat from earlier rising in his cheeks. _Fuck’s sake Ron_ , he curses, _is it that hard to keep your mouth shut?_ The flush of his skin is not unnoticed to her. She suppresses the laugh that fights against her lips. She’s flattered, really. Ron couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help but tell her. As soon as Flip was on his break he had burst down the corridor and into the records room, eager to share the gossip with his new friend.

            “He said _what_? _Really_?” she’d scoffed.

She had no shame in him knowing about her and Flip. In fact, she was quite proud of it. Knowing that the man of the station had spent the night with her, his mind still with her in more ways than one. But to hear that he thought she was to quote… _fucking sensational_ … was another level of pride entirely. _He hasn’t seen the half of it_ , she thought to herself. If Ron kept bringing her comments like this, she was sure her ego would fly through the roof.

            “You were pretty sensational yourself,” she trails the tip of her finger along his palm, making him shiver. “Though… I think I’d need another night to decide fully.”

She’s not totally sure where the words come from. He gives her a confidence like never before, fills her with a sense of self-assurance that no man before him could manage. He cracks a smile, the wave of shame passing over him with ease as he watches her trace circles in his palm.

            “Mmm, I think I could work something out.” He feels himself twitch in his jeans, as if to confirm his statement.

She bites back the excitement, remining herself not to sound too eager, too excited. She doesn’t want to look as addicted as she is.

            “Tonight?” she’s hopeful.

He straightens up from the desk, eyes just above her level again. Her dark eyes look up to him as his mind flashes back to before, the sight of her sprawled out for him, lips wrapped tight around his shaft, hot breath against his skin.

            “I can’t. Night shift.” The words are a pain. “How’s tomorrow night sound?”

            She shrugs, hiding her elation. “I could do tomorrow.”

He slaps his palms against the desk, lets them drag against the cool wood as he walks backwards.

            “So, we got ourselves a plan.” His grin is wide from beneath his moustache.

            She nods. “See you round eight?”

            “Nine.” He haggles. “I’ve seen the way you’re walking today. You need all the time you can get.”

Now she’s the one blushing. She lets out a scoff to hide her embarrassment. She can’t wipe the smirk off her face as she watches him disappear through the door, winking as he leaves. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

 

* * *

 

He’s at her door by 9:15, fingers raking back through his hair in a last-minute attempt to smooth it down. He can feel his heart hammering against his chest, breaths speeding up as she opens the door. Her hair is tied back in that way she sometimes wears it at the station, her sharp jaw on show as she smirks at him from the doorway. Though he likes it down, something about it now feels sexy. Though he’s so deep in lust with her he’s sure he’d want her no matter what.

            “Evening,” she opens the door wide enough for him to come in.

He steps across the now familiar threshold, big boots creaking the wooden floorboards of her home. He shrugs out of his jacket, placing it on the rack near her door. Before he can say a word, her hands are wrapping around his shoulders, hoisting herself up so she’s tall enough to kiss him. Her lips are soft against his own, wet and warm in the late evening. He places his hands against her wrists, pulls them away from him with a smirk.

            “Slow your ropes lady,” his words are but a murmur, “don’t you wanna hear about my day?”

She can tell he’s joking though he tries to hide it, the wide spread of her favourite mouth just centimetres from her own. She pauses for a moment, pretending to think about her answer.

            “No.” She smiles, meeting his lips again.

 _Right answer_ , he thinks, slipping his tongue inside her mouth. He explores her hungrily, feeling her moans against his mouth as he sucks her lip between his own, teeth grazing against it, testing the water. She leans into him, lets his arms wrap around her, lift her high enough off the ground that he can kiss her without leaning down. He walks her to the sofa, settles down on it with her on top of him, hips grinding into his lap without needing to be told. She can feel his erection though his jeans, presses herself into it as her lips follow the line of his jaw and down to his neck. Her tongue grazes against his skin gently between the kisses and nibbles, her teeth pressing into his skin just hard enough that he groans. His hands venture underneath her skirt, grabbing her ass hard, pressing her into him. She finds his lips again as his hands wander over the material of her underwear, eager fingers pressing against her folds through the cotton.

            “Shit,” the words are but a whisper from her lips.

He breaths heavy against her skin as he pulls the cotton aside. Presses the tip of his finger against her folds, feels her moisture against him. He runs his finger up and down her split skin, listens to her whine against him, feels her angle her hips in a desperate attempt to push him inside her. His other hand holds her ass tight, fixes her in place so he can do what he wants at his own pace.

            “You like that?” he asks as his first finger ventures inside her.

She nods against his neck, unable to speak as he curls inside her, pressing against her hot flesh. He follows her moans, increasing the speed as she gets louder against him, two fingers deep inside her now. He brings a hand up to her face, holds her chin in front of him so he can watch her face. Eyes shut, brows knitted together, wide lips open as she rocks her hips against his fingers, generating a rhythm of her own. The sight of her drags a growl from his lips.

            “I need to taste you.”

He grabs her body like she weighs nothing, pins her back against the sofa so he is crouching in front of her. He rips at the buttons of her skirt without mercy, eager to rid her of the pointless thing as he hungers for her. She joins him in yanking down her underwear, hands shaking as she pulls them off from around her ankle. He stares at her, naked from the waist down, eyes dark with need. He parts her legs, spreading her knees wide on her sofa. She watches, breath heavy from her mouth as he wraps his hands around her upper thighs, drags her hips towards his mouth roughly. She’s sure she could finish just watching him, but the first feel of his mouth against her hot skin sends her into a frenzy she’s never felt before. His wide tongue flicks from top to bottom, dances against her folds, takes in her sweet taste. It circles her opening, ventures inside in short, wet bursts that make her body jolt against him. Her back arches against the sofa as he presses deep inside her, the long moan from his mouth sending vibrations across her delicate skin.

            “You taste so fucking good.”

He tongues her clit, sucks against it gently, moans into her skin as her hand comes down to grab his hand instinctively. Fingers lost in his dark strands, yanking tight against his skull as he pleasures her, lips never separating from her most intimate part. She can’t take her eyes off his face. Eyes staring up at her with a dark intensity as he works on her, bottom half of his face lost in her skin, the tickle of his facial hair makes her squirm.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” she whines, voice venturing higher than it’s ever been before.

The pain of her fingers against his hair only turns him on more, makes him want to drive her even closer to the orgasm he can feel is coming. He keeps his tongue on her clit, flicking up and down over the soft skin as he slips his fingers back inside her, working in unison with his hot mouth. He hears her moans make a peak, a flurry of sounds and swears that only increase as his fingers pump in and out of her. Her hand tightens in his hair, fingers clenched up so much that he winces, growls against her. The tightness in her stomach reaches a peak as he touches her, completely in control of her pleasure. The orgasm shudders out of her quickly, hips shaking against his mouth as he smiles with satisfaction. Her hand loosens in his hair, body completely breathless in the aftermath. He drags his mouth away from her finally, lips smothered with the taste of her.

            “Good girl,” he rewards her, standing to unbutton his jeans.

He’s rock hard as he strips himself, shaft long, thick and swollen with need. She can only stare at it with desire as she catches her breath, knowing it’s about to be stripped away from her again as soon as he’s inside her.       

            “Why don’t you lie down on the floor and let me take that pussy?”

It’s not a question, it’s an order. And she follows it without hesitation. Slipping her body down onto her carpet, opening her legs wide for him as he strips down to his undershirt. She can feel herself pulsating as he positions himself on top of her, one muscular arm supporting himself while his other grips his shaft, aligning himself with her. Her breath catches in her throat as he slides the tip inside her, a hiss coming from his mouth at the sensation. Though he’s spent his time working her up it’s still a stretch for her in the beginning. He eases in and out of her gently, speeding up when he knows she can take it. It’s not long before he finds himself rambling, lost in the pleasure of her.

            “You take it so well,” he growls, “you’re such a good girl.”

The words are only just audible over her own moans and the slapping of their skin, the percussion providing a loud backdrop to their activity. He’s more comfortable with her this time, feels no shame about ripping her top open to grab her breast, about biting into her neck as he tries to hold back his orgasm. She feels much the same, allowing her mouth to say what she thinks as she thinks it. Telling him to take her harder, that she’s all his, that she’s going to finish if he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. And he soaks every second of it up, eager to take every inch of her that he can. He’s almost disappointed as he loses the grip on his control, spilling inside her with a moan that comes from somewhere deep in his core.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, _I could get used to this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really starting to take a shine to this whole smut thing. it's so fun! it's nice to have a chapter that's not any drama or tension, just some laughs and sexy times. hope you're all still enjoying, i can't bELIeve this has over 300 hits now!! amazing!! 
> 
> p.s. i also bought the blackkklansman book today because i'm super interested in the real story so who knows, might factor some of that into the fic soon!


	10. all work and no play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they begin to grow close, Flip begins to wonder if his endeavours with work will get in the way of what they have.

And get used to it he does.

He ends up seeing her at least three times a week, making time whenever he can. He finds himself watching the hours tick down on the clock, skipping out on drinks after work, eating take-out for dinner in his car and driving straight to see her after. It’s an addiction. Not to the sex, but to her. Everyone else can see it but him. He refuses to admit to it. “It’s not serious,” he tells the guys when they ask. Though he can’t ignore that the words sound wrong from his mouth. He’s grateful that she doesn’t raise the issue with him, that she’s easy-going enough not to question what they have while they have it. It’s one of the many things he likes about her.

            “What is this, an interrogation?” she smirks at him in the dim light of her bedroom, duvet hanging just below her cleavage. “Are you investigating me detective?”

He smirks back at her, propped up by his elbow against her pillow. Though he never spends the night, he stays with her for a little while after each time he visits. He finds himself delving deep into her life, asking questions before he can think to hold back. He supposes it’s a side effect of work, he craves information. It helps that she’s so easy to talk to, so willing to share. They spend a few nights laid up together; him asking questions, her answering, bodies clutched together in the night.

            “Just asking is all,” he dismisses.

She watches his face, searches for ulterior motives underneath the features she’s grown so accustomed to. She finds none. She can see the cogs working in his mind, mouth not letting out whatever is perched there. She’s learnt by now to not return his questions, he always finds a way out of answering. Whether it’s spinning it back on her, changing the subject or just straight up leaving, she can never seem to get any answers out of this man. It doesn’t bother her too much in the short term.

            “She knows. She’s not happy about it, but she knows.” She sighs.

It feels strange talking about her mother to him; especially now. To the naked, white cop in her bed. Though she mocks his questions, deep down she’s grateful for them. It’s nice to have someone interested in what she thinks, what she feels, who she is. It’s a feeling she hasn’t known in a while.

            “She says she didn’t send me to college just to be a damn secretary. I guess it’s fair.” Her voice is distant.

            “You went to college?” Flip’s voice perks up.

She finds new ways to impress him every day. He looks down across her features with a smirk, his interest piqued. He never made it to college, never even considered it as an option. Once in a blue moon, he finds himself regretting the decision. For a social aspect, more than anything. His friendship circle is shamefully small. A smile cracks on her face as she rolls over onto her side, arm coming up to rest underneath her head. Her eyes are wide as she faces him.

            “Why do you seem so surprised?” she challenges him.

            “You just never mentioned it. What was your major?”

            “Journalism.” She smiles. “Convinced myself I was going to be this huge writer, you know? Breaking news stories every day. Front page articles.”

Though she’s joking, the tone of her voice makes his smirk drop slightly. He can add two together and work out what it was that held her back from success. The same reason she gets so much stick at the station. He doesn’t press her any further, sensing the tone in her voice. He has enough experience with disappointment to know it’s not fun to talk through. She keeps her eyes on the ceiling, thinking to herself.

            “I wouldn’t take a day of it back though,” there’s a reminiscent smile on her face.

            He smiles at her expression. “I bet you were wild.”

She turns her eyes to him, daring smirk on her lips. He’s not wrong. She thinks of the stories she’s never told, the parties blurred from booze, men she’s never heard from again. It makes her laugh thinking about it. She almost doesn’t remember her college self. She feels like a distant yet exciting relative. Before Flip, her post-college life had become so boring. He gives her an excuse to dip into her old self. The self she knows she wants to be. Free speaking. Confident. Passionate.

            “Were?” She rolls over onto her side, duvet falling to expose a single bare breast.

She watches as his eyes instantly fall to her newly exposed skin, his mouth twitching at the sight of it. She pushes his shoulder back into the bed, sees his confused yet excited eyes watch as she begins to straddle him, only a few centimetres between their naked hips as she places her hands either side of his head.

            “I don’t think I’ve seen you at your wildest.” He tells her, eyeing up her body as she kneels above him.

            “Is that so?” She keeps her eyes dead set on his as her hand trails down his chest, along his stomach.

He feels himself growing excited as he feels her fingers against his skin, anticipates her warm hand around his length. She leans in close to him, her hair falling down across his face in a dark net. His breathing picks up as she nears him, warm breath against his lips. He feels the faintest of touches against his cheek. Her lips feather light against his skin. She wraps her hand around his shaft, feeling him harden in her hand as she massages him, tongue running along the line of his jaw. He lets out a soft moan, eye fluttering shut. She leans back, watches his face from above as he begins to thrust up into her hand, teeth biting down on his bottom lip. Seeing him like that drives her crazy. When she knows he’s all hers, giving her everything he has. She wants nothing more than to just take him, have him inside her for the second time that night. But no. Not yet. When she’s sure he’s at the peak of his enjoyment, she stops. His eyes open instantly, head lifting up from its pillow position to look at her, stirring from his arousal. He looks mad.

            “What makes you think you deserve to see me at my wildest?” Her tone is teasing one, he knows it well now.

            “You know that I do.” He grumbles, trying to guide her hand back into motion along his aching shaft.

She slaps him away with the back of her hand thoughtlessly, doesn’t even flinch at the intensity of his stare. His eyes seem completely black, no distinction between the iris and pupil as he glares at her, needing her to satisfy him again.

            “I’m not convinced.”

There’s a faint smirk on her lips, but he knows she’s about as serious as she can get in that situation. She wants more from him. Though he likes to be in control, she’s learnt she has the ability to take it away from him when she wants to. She’s the only person he allows himself to succumb to, to crumble in the palm of her hand. When he doesn’t make a move to speak, she gives him one long stroke, gains a yelp from his mouth before he stops again. He feels the ache, the _want_. He’ll give her anything she wants if she teases him enough.

            “You know no one else can fuck you like I can,” his words are fast, breathless.

She knows it’s true as she begins to stroke at him again, tension in his body easing as the pleasure seeps back into him, spreads out through his skin. Her motions are slow, and his hands cover hers, trying anything to speed her up again. To get her to touch him like they both know he needs. But she’s not finished yet.

            “Hmm,” she mock considers it. “And how much do you want to fuck me?”

            “So bad,” he moans without thinking, “so fucking bad.”

She speeds up her motions, watches as he presses his head back into the pillow, eyes closed, lips clenched together with the pleasure. She keeps up her pace as she grills him.

            “Tell me how much you want it.”

He intakes air sharply through his teeth, hissing at the sensation of her palm. It’s hard for him to concentrate on not finishing, never mind answering her questions. The longer he leaves it, the more she teases him, speeding up and slowing down again, dragging out the orgasm until he feels like it’ll never arrive.

            “I wanna pound that tight little pussy,” he growls.

She moans involuntarily, the sound of his voice activating something inside her. Though she’s not finished. She leans down, runs the tip of her tongue over his slit, tastes him on her tongue. He leans up, body jolting with the sensation.

            “Say the word and it’s yours.”

He grips her shoulder tight with his hand, desperate to ground himself to the situation as he feels her lips press over the head, her wet mouth encircling him, preparing to take his length. He knows the exact word she needs as he opens his eyes, watches her tongue flick against his hot, pink, skin. Sees her smile as she leans away from him, threatening to make it all stop if he doesn’t adhere to her commands. He’s aching for it, can feel his orgasm so close he knows it’s only minutes away. Though his pride won’t let him do it. Won’t make him beg for her. At least not yet.

            “One word Flip, one word and this pussy’s all yours.”

Even the words make him yearn, the veins running thick across his length with need. She runs her tongue from base to tip, sucks his sore head for a moment at the end, her saliva still connecting them when she pulls away. _Fuck_ , he thinks, _I want it so bad_. He knows, as soon as he opens his mouth, that she’ll never let him forget the next words from his mouth:

            “ _Please_ ,” it’s a whimper.

She smiles wide. Flip Zimmerman begging. She never thought she’d see the day. She doesn’t make him wait, gets up and positions herself above him within seconds. A firm grip on him as she begins to ease him inside her. She’s wet from her control, and her skin is hot around him. He lets out a low moan as she eases down onto him, hips meeting slowly. His hands find her hips instinctively, holding her sides as she begins to ride him. He can barely open his eyes from the pleasure. The second he does, he feels his grip on his orgasm loosen. Her slender body grinds above him, right hand coming down to hold his shoulder as she picks up speed, hips rutting him mercilessly as his moans begin to pick up volume.

            “Fuck, that’s so good. You’re so _fucking_ good. Don’t stop for me baby. Don’t stop.” He can’t control his mouth as he watches her, sees her breasts bouncing with the rhythm, the thickness of her thighs slapping against his skin as she fucks him.

His fingers are digging into her sides now, anchoring her to him every time their skin comes into contact. Within minutes he’s thrusting himself up to meet her, needing to be as deep inside as she can physically allow. Though she wants to maintain her control on the situation, she finds herself lost in the pleasure, her own moans growing to a shout as she feels him hammering her insides. He slaps her ass hard every few thrusts, jerks a moan from her mouth at the sweet sting of it. It’s different to the other angles he’s taken her from, feels as if her body was tailor-made to fit him and him only. The moments they share, eyes locked on each other, let her know he feels the same. She notices the familiar build-up of his moans, senses his finish is coming. She thrusts at him with everything she has, feeling the ache deep in her hips as she gives it one last push. His hands are rough on her, needing something to grip as he feels his orgasm burst out of him, and inhuman moan escaping his lips as it leaves him. The sensation makes her own hips shake, bodies synchronising with pleasure. She stays perched on him to catch her breath, bare chest rising and falling with the exertion. His palms massage her reddened backside.

            “ _Wild_.” Is all he can say.

 

* * *

 

When Ron first puts the idea to him, he laughs. A deep, hearty sound that’s rare around the station. It’s an accomplishment to make him laugh like that. When he’s done with his amusement, he sees Ron isn’t sharing the same amusement as him.

            “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His face falls flat. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

Ron doesn’t say anything, knows his silence will work in his favour. Flip turns on himself, rakes a hand back through his slick, dark hair. Yanks it back out again to wave around as he makes his point.

            “I’m not fucking joining the KKK because you were too damn stupid to use an undercover name!” He shouts.

            “I’m not asking you to _join_ ,” Ron’s voice is patience despite his frustration, “I’m asking you to _infiltrate_.”

            “I don’t care what you’re asking. I’m not doing it.” Flip’s voice is final.

The men stare at each other in the back room of the Intelligence office, voices too loud and stares too intense for the tiny space. Ron knows he’s going to have to speak first as he eyes the other man, his dark brow set strong above his unblinking eyes. He’s never known a man so stubborn.

            “Why you actin’ you ain’t got skin in the game?” Ron’s voice is back down to a normal volume.

Flip fishes a cigarette out of the packet in his pocket, viciously flicks at his lighter three times before he manages to produce a flame. The cigarette is hanging out his mouth when he next speaks, smoke filling the room as he opens his mouth.

            “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He’s giving him the benefit of the doubt, hoping the words he thinks are coming never arrive.

            “Don’t act like I haven’t seen that chain round your neck. It’s a Star of David. You’re Jewish.”

And there they are, tugging deep on something inside him, gaining the same knee-jerk violence that always comes with questions of his religion.

            “Just cause I wear a chain doesn’t mean I’m a Jew. You don’t know a single fuckin’ thing about me.” He snaps, cigarette clutched between his middle and forefinger as he jabs them towards Ron.

His voice is no longer defensive, but actively offensive. He likes Ron, really does. He’s everything a good detective should be: fast-thinking, inquisitive, resourceful. Not to mention he’s a damn good guy to be around—he’s a mile smarter than anyone else in the department, and funny too. It pains Flip to talk to him with such a harsh tone. Though they joke and exchange insults over every shift, this is different. He feels the venom in his words. And he means them. This is crossing a boundary for him. Taking him down a route that he knows will end bad. He’ll do whatever he can to avoid it. Ron remains still as he watches the smoke swirl from the end of Flip’s cigarette, just inches from his face. He’s calm and unmoving despite the aggression from his colleague. He waits until he has turned around and taken another few drags before he speaks again.

            “Jew or not: do you agree with what the KKK are doing in this country?”

            Flip spins round, “Of course I fucking don’t.”

The words are practically spat, the disgust from his tone evident in his facial expression. His nose wrinkles up, big brows coming down to meet it as he scowls.

            “Then do something about it.” Ron’s words are firm. “If you don’t stand against them, you might as well stand with them.”

The words hit him straight in the chest, somewhere deep. He knows all about the power of inaction, what can happen when good people turn a blind eye to injustice. It’s one of the main reasons he doesn’t delve too deep into religion, into his past, his heritage. It stirs something emotional in him just thinking about it, but he bites it down. Swallows hard on the lump trying to rise in his throat. He makes his way to the door, wraps his long fingers around the cool handle when he hears Ron’s voice call out once more.

            “Sergeant Trapp has already approved the investigation. You meet them on Saturday.”

He pauses to process the words momentarily, big body stood still by the door frame. Ron watches his expression harden before he disappears through the door, a loud slam following his exit. He waits in the room alone, wondering for a second if he’s made the wrong decision. _No_ , he tells himself, _I’m doing this for us. For my people and his people, whether he claims them or not_. He won’t allow himself to turn into a man who ignores injustice. Not now, not ever. Flip’s mind is whirring with thoughts as he leaves the room, frustration evident in his every movement as it tightens his muscles, makes him rigid with anger. Expletives bounce around his brain, cursing Ron, Sergeant Trapp, even the extremist bastards who landed him in this situation.

            “What’s up with you?” Jimmy asks.

He’s not being sarcastic, not provoking his partner into annoyance like normal. There’s genuine concern behind his greying brows, but Flip just ignores him, storms straight out of the office. That’s how he knows it’s serious. Flip is a reserved man, yes, but not a quiet one. When there are no words left in that man, no “ _piss off Jimmy_ ” or “ _does everything fucking look alright?_ ” to greet him, that’s when he knows it’s serious. He knows better than to follow him as he disappears down the hallway. In truth, he’s not thinking straight as he walks. He’s not even concerned with where his feet are taking him until he storms into the records room. He slams the door behind him, leans against it and watches as she jumps, turns to face him with two files in her hand.

            “You scared the hell out of me.” She exhales.

Her eyebrows knit together with concern, watching his expression as he waits there, saying nothing.

            “Work gettin’ to ya?”

She knows better than to ask what it is that’s bothering him. She won’t get an answer, only a repackaged question that removes him from the firing line.

            “When isn’t it.” He sighs.

For the first time he wants to tell her. To open up. To pour out his feelings, lay them down on the desk and leave them for her inspection. He feels it like a tug straight to his chest. A desperate need for guidance, for comfort. For that four-letter word he just isn’t ready to say yet. But as always, he holds them back. Lets his emotions simmer down to nothing more than background noise as he watches her stack the shelves. Just her presence is enough to ease him, to bring him back down from that hot-headed dark place that he finds himself in every now and then. And he’s glad for it too. She’d surely respond badly if he blew it and told her about the investigation.

            “You need somethin’, or you just here to watch me do my job?” she calls over her shoulder, body stretched high to retrieve a box from the top shelf.

He watches her slim frame as she moves, long legs peering out from underneath a short skirt. She’s more adventurous with her wardrobe these days. Now that Landers is gone and she’s gained some respect, she feels more comfortable wearing her normal clothes. Plus, it helps that he’s there to drop her home every other night. But this skirt is shorter than the others, dangerously so. He can’t keep his eyes off it as she moves, forgets to even answer her question as he finds his eyes glued to her thighs, imagining their warmth around him.

            “So you’re mute now, is that it?”

He ignores her again, turning around to close the blinds, the room darkening as the natural light is shut out. She doesn’t notice at first, only realises what he’s doing when she hears the dull winding of the wood as it begins to shut.

            “You’re not doing what I think you’re doing…” she trails off as he walks towards her.

Though she struggles every day to lift the heavy wood of the desk, he does it with ease, eyes pinned on her as he opens the flap one-armed, placing it back gently behind him. It’s the first time a man has entered her safe zone, though she doesn’t mind it’s him. She’s got a knowing smirk on her face as he steps towards her, hands reaching for either side of her face to meet her lips. She’s almost bent backwards by the force of his mouth, lips passionate against her own, tongue meeting her own with familiarity. He groans deep and low against her mouth, hand slipping from her face to her thigh, fighting its way under her skirt to grab the skin underneath. She flinches against his cold fingers, mouth pulling away from him.

            “What if someone comes in?” she’s nervous, though the thought of him taking her almost outweighs her worry.

He thinks for a moment before he yanks her by the arm to the back of the room, pins her body up against a shelf so rough she can feel the contents jostling around behind her. She doesn’t have time to let out the laugh she wants to before his lips are on hers, hairs of his moustache pressing against her skin. She opens her mouth to him, welcomes his rough kisses, the feel of his teeth grazing against her bottom lip. She wraps her arms around his neck as he lifts her leg around his waist, hips pinning her in place. He’s eager to take every part of her he can, to release his frustration on the body he’s grown so fond of. His mouth moves to her neck, sloppy, wet kisses lining the veins underneath her skin. He nips at her here and there, soaks in the sound of her soft moans in the usually quiet room. His hand tightens around her ass, nails digging into her skin as he holds her. He grunts as she kisses him deeper, knots her hands deep into his hair, pulls him impossibly closer. She can feel his excitement through his jeans, craves the feeling of him inside her again. As if reading her mind, he spins her round, pins her front to the shelf in front of him, holds her wrists as he presses them into her lower back.

            “Keep these here,” he orders her, removing his hands from her wrists to pull up her skirt.

She feels the cool air of the room on her ass as its exposed to him, hears the deep groan in his throat as he looks at her, runs his palm over her cheeks softly. The side of her face is pressed into the shelf but she looks over her shoulder to watch as he begins to spank her, big palm coming into contact with her skin with a loud slap. She’d never let another man touch her like that, might even take offense if they tried, but something about the way he does it makes her weak at the knees. Has her craving the sharp pain he brings; the reddened hand prints he leaves on her skin when he’s finished. She moans as he spanks her again, body tensing with the sweet sting of it. She prepares for another when she feels his rough hands yanking her underwear down, parting her legs wide enough that he can slip his fingers inside her. She whimpers as she feels him against her walls, long fingers pleasuring her with an urgency she hasn’t felt from him before. His other hand circles her face, brings it towards him as he places a kiss behind her ear. Her eyes close with the pleasure of it, mind never imagining she could enjoy a day at work this much. She’s on the verge of begging for him when she hears the familiar sound of his jeans unzipping, his breathing picking up as he pumps at his hardened shaft before lining himself up with her, grabbing her ass and positioning it to suit him. She feels herself buckle at the first feel of him, legs unsteady beneath her as he eases in. She tries to keep quiet as he picks up a pace, ruts against her in the darkness of the room. He’s rougher with her this time, hands digging into her sides, slapping her ass every few strokes to solidify his dominance over her. She loves it, pressing back against him every chance she gets, face edging further into the wood of the shelf with every thrust of him behind her. No matter how hard she tries, her mouth betrays her, moaning out his name among a string of other curses as he edges her closer to her orgasm. He lifts his head from its rested position on her shoulder, places his lips right against her ear.

            “You’re so loud baby,” the words send a shiver down her spine, make her legs shake so much she’s scared she might fall. “Shh. Let’s keep this our secret.”

She bites down on her lip, fighting to keep the noises inside her, eager to please him at any opportunity she gets.

            “You’re so tight,” he whispers, unable to keep himself quiet, “you’re gonna make me finish right here in this room.”

He picks up his pace, rams her so hard she can hear things falling off shelves, the whole room shaking with the power of his hips. She feels his hand come up to cover her mouth as it opens, her lips open against his palm as she feels herself come undone, body loosening as she finishes. He lasts only a few more strokes, head thrown back as he grunts with the sensation rising from deep inside him. He’s breathless as he holds her, ass flush against him as he rests his head on her shoulder. He catches his breath, feels his chest heave up and down with the force of it.

            “You know, I’m starting to like this job,” she admits.

He chuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd say we're about 1/2 through the fic at the moment, so things are starting to get a little serious again. i really liked the scene with flip and ron introducing the KKK investigations, i think it says a lot about both of their motivations as characters. also this chapter is kind of dirty but i can't help it! i'm becoming addicted to smut. i just love their physical relationship, and fucking at work? whew. i just had to. also i'm totally in awe that this has over 400 reads now!! absolutely amazing, and it feels like only yesterday i was just starting this. i love every single one of you guys. thanks so much for you comments and your support, keep it comin!!
> 
> alsoooooo i kickstarted my tumblr back up again recently and i'm serrrriously lacking in mutuals (haven't used it in like 3/4 years and all my old mutuals have deactivated) so if you wanna hmu and chat you can find me at cybershan.tumblr.com! hope to see you there :)


	11. complikkkated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time goes on she finds herself questioning exactly what they are to each other. Lovers? Partners? Strangers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i couldn't resist a pun in the title

By the time the two month mark comes around, she’s beginning to grow frustrated. She likes him. He likes her. Yet they remain in limbo. In the space that exists between lust and love. She’s unsure what he wants from her, never knows how he feels. It doesn’t help that she can never seem to summon the courage to ask him. Too scared of what might happen if she does. He told her he cared once, but no words similar have come from his lips since. But the way he touches her, the way he looks at her, say different. She has known the touch of a man who doesn’t care. Of a man who wants nothing more than skin against skin. This is not that man. Though skin is a lot of what they share, she knows there is something underneath it all. Something inching its way to the surface, bit by bit, kiss by kiss, touch by touch.

            But it isn’t moving fast enough. Not for her.

It’s not so much that she needs him to love her, simply that she wants to know if he does. Then she can feel how she feels without shame, without the persistent wonder of whether he feels it too. Sometimes when she looks into those big, brown eyes of his she can convince herself he feels it. When his palm is gentle and soft against her face, and all her stress seems to ooze away, she’s sure he feels it. When he finishes and leans down to place kisses along her jaw, her mouth, her forehead, she _knows_ there’s something more there. He’s an actions man, not a words man. She knows that by now. But is it too much to ask for a little confirmation? For a simple: ‘ _I like you, I’m just not great at dealing with how I feel.’_ It would seem so. She likes to tell herself that if he felt nothing for her, she could move on. Keep up the sex, drop the feelings. In a way, it’s maybe good if he doesn’t feel strongly about her. What would they do in the long run? A black woman, with a white cop… How would she tell her friends? Her family? It doesn’t matter how hard she tries, she cannot picture them together without the stress of race weighing heavy on her shoulders.

            “He really cares about you, you know.” Ron had told her.

Though the words had warmed something inside her, it still left her yearning. If he cared so much, why couldn’t he show it? What was it Ron could see that she couldn’t? She tries not to talk to Ron about him too much, doesn’t want to taint his view of his new partner, but she can’t help but let slip every now and then. No one else would understand. No one else would even listen. He comes to the records room every few days, asks her about the two of them. Where it’s going. When she’s seeing him next. If she’s his girl. The answers are always the same. _I don’t know. Tomorrow night. No_. And it pains her to answer them. Ron sees her pain, feels it as if it were his own. They’ve built up quite the friendship, and it hurts him to see her that caught up over Zimmerman. He tries to bring the topic up the best he can. Pokes at the issue during work hours.

            “So, are you gonna make her your girlfriend or what?” It’s always casual, but the look behind his eyes is serious.

Flip’s dark eyes flick up from the task at hand, eyeing Ron with contempt.

            “Why is that any of your business?” His voice is defensive, ready to strike.

What annoys Ron most, is not his tone of voice, but the fact that he doesn’t see his relationship with her as an issue. Sure, non-committal sex is fine, but that’s not what they have. If that was it, he wouldn’t make time to check on her at work, he wouldn’t have let her stay at his house after the attack, he wouldn’t drive her home every other night to make sure she’s home safe. And yet, he doesn’t piece these together. Doesn’t think about how that might confuse her. Every time he draws her in, she finds herself being pushed back out again. He doesn’t answer her questions about his life, though she returns every single one of his. Tells her he’s busy when she offers to cook him dinner. Says he can’t make it on the weekends when she asks if he’d like to go on a walk. And it’s all this information that gets fed back to Ron, makes him shake his head with the mess of it all. Flip’s toying with her feelings and he doesn’t even notice it. It blows Ron’s mind to think about it. How can a detective not see what’s right in front of him?

            “I’m just sayin’,” Ron holds his hands up, “most guys wouldn’t leave a girl like that waiting around.”

And it’s those words that stick with Flip for days after he’s heard them. Why _is_ he leaving her waiting around? It’s not like he hasn’t thought about making it official. He likes her more than he’s ever liked, well… _anyone_. He tries to keep his relationships purely sexual. It’s easier that way, without the feelings. Whenever he thinks there’s even the slightest chance of him getting attached, he cuts it off. But he’s missed the cut off window by a long shot this time. Couldn’t bear to think of what it would be like if she weren’t around, if she didn’t want him the way she does. He doesn’t even try and fight the thoughts of her when they cross his mind. When he finds himself missing her voice, her smile, her touch. He has to fight the urge to get up and see her when he’s working. To call up her landline and just _talk_ after a long day with the Klan. Though his feelings don’t seem to translate, the message getting lost somewhere between his heart and his actions. He wants nothing more than to share his emotions with her, to have her know what he feels when he feels it. But he can’t. The trauma of loss is something he still holds close to him. And in those moments where she reaches out to him, craving that closeness that’s lacking in their relation, he can’t allow himself to give it to her. Too scared to think what might happen if he allows himself to grow close to someone again. Too hurt to think what might happen if they’re snatched away from him once more. It’s too late to numb that pain now, and the worst part is: he knows it.

 

* * *

 

She talks herself out of it for days. Mulls the idea over and over in her mind. Tells herself: _No. That’s not what you’re here for_ every time the thought crosses her mind. But she can’t help it. She looks into Flip’s officer profile that afternoon, driven by the curiosity deep within her. She doesn’t even know his age and they’ve been seeing each other for almost three months now. Though he rarely sees her these days. His visits are few and far between, the time spent laid up with her getting less and less each time. It hurts her somewhere deep. She fears he’s losing interest. Worries he’s found someone else. She doesn’t allow herself to go crazy with the thought, though she feels it like a thousand-tonne weight every time she watches him leave. So she finds herself craving him in paper form, desperate to soak up whatever detail she can from the pages in front of her, hoping it’ll fill the craving she has for him.

            The file tells more of a story than he ever has.

Her eyes pour over the details hungrily, taking in everything she can. He’s 31. Almost 32. That’s eight years older than her. She’s momentarily taken aback by the realisation, wondering if he knows her age, before she realises she doesn’t care. They’re both adults and she’s always known he was older, so why does it matter? Her eyes widen at his brief stint with the US military. The Flip she knows is laid-back, does everything as he sees fit. It’s a stretch for her to imagine him all uniformed up, taking orders from some no doubt screaming general every day. She almost laughs at the idea. Imagines him holding his sharp tongue, rolling his eyes whenever he had a free moment. The young, clean shaven, short-haired boy in the photo is not the one she knows. His skin isn’t aged by experience, not graced by the dark hair she loves. He’s handsome, no doubt, but he doesn’t gain the same reaction he gets from her now. She passes over the picture, picks her way through a couple more that are held within the folder. Snaps of him meeting drug dealers, exchanging details, getting into foreign cars in the night. Just from the pictures, it’s an exciting life. She wonders why he’s so reluctant to talk about it. The pictures get gradually more recent, his hair growing longer with each snap it seems, face growing more like the one she’s become accustomed to. When she reaches the most recent set of pictures, her entire body goes rigid. She stands there entirely still, stomach having dropped through the floor as her eyes process what she’s seeing. She blinks a few times, brings the photos close to her face, takes them back again, shakes her head, tries to deny what is actually in front of her. Though she can’t ignore it. It is what she thinks it is. White hoods. Confederate flags. Burning crosses.

            He’s working for the KKK.

 

* * *

 

The next time his knuckles sound against her door, there’s a burning rage inside her. She hasn’t seen him in nearly three weeks. He doesn’t come by the station any more. It’s probably good for both of them that he doesn’t, when they have this argument, she doesn’t want to worry about the other officers hearing. When she opens the door he steps past her hastily, rubbing his hands together from the cold. He couldn’t risk driving here, too paranoid someone might see his car. The half hour walk has him truly frozen to the bone, but it’s worth it to him. He’s desperate for company. His updates to Ron and the Sergeant are mostly over the phone, in the darkness of his apartment when he’s sure there’s no one listening in. It pains him to be away from the station, from the men he calls friends. The investigation deprives him of any tolerable human contact. It’s early days with the Klan and still he can feel the toll of their hatred. Feels it surround him like a cloud of toxic smoke, lingering in his mind when he’s alone. And in truth, the time away from her only makes him more irritable. She’s the only thing that can soothe him of this sort of thing. Tonight, he’s not even here for the sex. He just wants to be around her.

            “I’m sorry it’s been a while,” he’s sincere as he says the words, shrugging out of his Sherpa jacket. “Work’s been real tough.”

The fury written across her face is not lost on him. Her firm set brow, pursed lips and hard eyes bore straight into him. A small apology is all he can offer her in response. It’s not like he hasn’t wanted to see her, he just doesn’t have the time, the energy. When her face doesn’t soften in response, he begins to feel the nerves build in his stomach. He always prayed he’d never bring out her bad side.

            “I imagine the KKK are keeping you really fucking busy.” Her words are like daggers.

She watches his expression change from pleading to guilt. His eyes widen, his mouth opening and closing, swallowing down a big gulp. He tries to think of how to work his way around it, feels his body tighten under the power of her stare.

            “Who told y—” he begins, for lack of anything else.

She’s screaming back at him before he can even finish his sentence, the sheer volume of her tone shocking him into silence.

            “Who told me? Nobody _fucking_ told me. That’s the problem! You let me sit around waiting for you when all this time you’ve been playing dress up with the fucking Klu Klux Klan? Did you not think that’s something that _might_ be important for me to know?”

Her breaths are heavy from her mouth, eyes fixed on him as she waits for a response, watches every movement of his body. When he speaks, he can barely bring his eyes to meet hers.

            “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to upset you.”

The words are like lighter fluid to her already flaming rage.

            “You didn’t want to **_upset_** me?! How do you think I fucking feel now? You can’t run around in a white hood screaming nigger all day and come back to fuck a black woman! That’s not how this works.”

She’s never felt pain like this before. She’s had time to think about everything, the betrayal, the lies, the hatred. What makes him different from any one of the men he’s working with? If he walks like a racist, and talks like a racist, what’s to say he isn’t one? The thought of those words coming from his mouth make her want to be sick. She hates him for even making her say those three letters in her own home, for having to fear for her safety in her own four walls. And who is there to blame? Shouldn’t she have known better than to trust a white cop? To let him into her home, into her body, her heart? Her anger cancels out the burning in her eyes, she ignores the blurring of her vision as she catches her breath. He can see the emotions on her face, the tears she’s fighting so hard to hold onto. Every ounce of the sadness on her face cuts into him, tugs on something deep that he hasn’t felt in years. It’s easy for him to switch off, to not care about other’s feelings. But this hurts. It’s weighed on his mind since the investigation started, and he’s gone back and forth about telling her for weeks but in the end he could never do it. He knows it’s selfish, but he couldn’t risk losing her.

            “What do you think would happen if they found out, huh?” She pipes up, voice loud again. “They’d have me hanging from a fucking tree somewhere, that’s what! This isn’t just about you getting fucked anymore. That’s my _life_ you’re putting in danger.”

            “I would never let anyone hurt you.” He raises his voice, points at the ground to emphasise his words.

            “You can’t promise that!”

He knows she’s right. He runs his hands over his beard, feels the gravity of his actions hit him all at once. What the hell was he thinking? He could get her killed. The thought is like a punch to the stomach.

            “I never meant for this to happen.” The words are a soft admission

She feels the first tear drop from her eye, rolling down her cheek and settling on her chin. She curses it mentally. She had never wanted to shed tears over this man. She tries to ignore the sadness, funnel her energy into anger instead. It’s easier to process it that way. She bats the tear away with her palm, sniffs in hard. He wants nothing more than to hold her in that moment, to scoop her up and bury her in his chest. To have her lean into him the way she’s done before. To need him as much as he needs her right now.

            “I don’t want anything to do with you. I can’t.” Her voice breaks somewhere in the middle.

She’s rehearsed it a thousand times to herself, but hearing it out loud, knowing that its final hits her differently. She daren’t look at him, tears flowing quite freely from her eyes now, running down onto the ribbed collar of her turtleneck. She wipes at them with the back of her hand, frustrated at their frequency. The words knock the wind out of him. He should have expected them, but they still don’t make sense in his brain. He’s grasping at whatever he can.

            “No,” the words are instinctive from him. “No, you… you don’t mean that.”

He’s never pleaded like this. Never needed another person to change their mind so desperately. His dignity is out of the window, freezing in the December night. He can feel his breath begin to pick up, mind whirring over the implications. He’s not sure how much she really meant to him until this moment.

            “You can’t just… leave everything we have,”

He doesn’t even know where the words are coming from, he usually thinks a great deal before he speaks but these words come straight out of him. He finds himself edging towards her, hands open as if to take hers in his own.

            “Everything we have?” She sniffs. “What _do_ we have Flip? …I only see you when you want a fuck or a file, and you only call me when you need someone to keep you awake on the late shift. You never tell me anything… you don’t even stay the night. I could point a _gun_ to your head and you would take a bullet before you admitted I meant something to you.”

His mouth falls open, dries out as he tries to think of what to say. He’s frantic, trying just to hold her, to take her shoulders in his hands and convince her to think different. She takes a step back from him, lifts her teary eyes to meet his. The tears make her skin shine in the orange light. She sees his thick brows contort with worry. His eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, staring into her with an urgency that communicates everything he’s ever felt about her. But it’s not enough. It never was.

            “I’m sorry, I’m just…” The words are a struggle. “I’m no good at this. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll change. I can change. I can.”

He’s convincing her more than he is himself. The lump in his throat is the size of a golf ball, chokes off his weak apologies every time they slip from his mouth. He wishes more than anything he could just tell her how he feels, let her know that he loves her. Because he does. It’s taken him until now to realise it, but it’s true. He’ll leave the investigation. Leave the CSPD if it changes her mind. He’s desperate.

            “I’m not going to sacrifice my morals for what we have. I won’t do it.”

It’s the only part of her imaginary script that she has kept to, sucking back the tears now the words are out of her mouth. She takes a deep breath, wipes her face again defiantly. She’s better than this. She deserves more. If he can’t give that to her, someone else will. Her eyes meet his once more, taking in the face that she’s grown so close to, only to have it all end. She glosses over the freckles on his face, trying not to focus on her favourite brown spot just to the left of his nose, the one that wrinkles up when he smirks. There’s a part of her that wants to give in, to let him hold her and promise her the world, even if it is all just words. She dismisses the thought aggressively.

            “I want you to leave.”

She steps past him, grabs his Sherpa jacket and holds it out for him at the door. The cool night air blows in as she opens it, her hair wrapping around her face in the breeze. He searches her expression for any kind of hint that she might still have room for him, the big, pleading man that he is now. There’s nothing. He bites down on his lip, straightens up his body. The lump in his throat prevents him from saying anything more. His feet are like thousand tonne weights as he walks towards her, every fibre of him not wanting to go. He knows it’s for the last time. His fingertips brush against hers as he takes his coat, but she yanks away from his touch, wants it no longer. His feet cross the threshold reluctantly, and the door slams behind him, a sound he wish he’d never heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
> a very angst filled chapter but it had to happen. we're not at the end of the fic yet so this isn't the end of their story, don't worry!! i know she's my OC but i'm so proud of her for standing her ground morally, she's so strong! i think this interaction will give flip a lot to think about in future chapters so i'm excited to get back to writing their next moves in the future. uni work is really starting to add up for me so if my updates are slow thats why, i'm sorry :(


	12. keep the faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their separation drives them both on different paths, while resurgences from their pasts cause them to consider what they really meant to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry i kept you guys waiting for so long with this one! work is really grinding on me :(

He handles the pain the same way as always: with a bottle for company. He unscrews the lid with his teeth, spits it away from him and downs the hot, brown liquor till his throat is sore. It burns on the way down, sits in his gut like fire as he slumps into his couch, begs his mind to go blank. He's a quiet drunk. Always has been. He drinks until his thoughts run silent, until the pain numbs out and there’s nothing left. It’s the way he’s always coped with loss. His mother. His brother. His father. He barely even remembers the months after his brother died, his recollection clouded by his alcoholism. The funeral is the only distinct day that sticks in his mind, and even parts of that are lost to him now. A flag draped over his coffin. The easing of the wet soil under his feet. His father’s shouts in his ear. _You were meant to protect him_. No amount of alcohol will take those words from him. They’ll follow him until he joins his brother on the other side. He knows that deep in his soul.

             If it wasn’t for Jimmy, he’s sure he would have joined his brother long ago.

They were regulars at the same bar, each showing up every week by coincidence. They would sit at the bar, a few seats down from each other, drinking and paying each other no mind. A month or two passed like that. Jimmy was a social man, always mixing with the other regulars though Flip never uttered a word to anyone other than the barman. And even then, his vocabulary rarely expanded past “Another.” He didn’t come to make friends, he came to forget. The others had come to know him as a quiet man, blending into the bar’s background like furniture. It didn’t matter how many glasses deep he was, he would always collect his coat and leave with the same grace he had entered with. Unchanged by the alcohol. The same could not be said for other men. It was not rare for a fight to break out, for men to grapple with each other until they were thrown out, for voices to be raised and expletives to be exchanged over the littlest of things. Flip never usually paid attention, choosing to keep his eyes focused ahead as the sound of fists hitting skin filled the room behind him. Though that night was different. Two men shouted from across the pool table, threatening levels of violence that were rarely ever followed through.

            “You better shut the fuck up before I make you,” yelled one of the men, slamming his glass down against the pool table.

Flip’s ears perked up, watching as the other man sprung across the table to land a punch square in his nose, causing his opponent to stagger backwards in shock, back slamming against the old wooden walls of the bar, shaking the picture frames down from their position. It was from that point that men normally began full-speed fighting, a blur of fists and feet in the dim setting. But this man took his time. Soaked up the pain as he raised his hand to his now bleeding nose, rubbed the red liquid between his fingers in something close to disbelief. He let out a single chuckle, hand reaching behind him and into his waistband as he produced a small handgun with ease. Instinctively Flip was on his feet, logic blinded by the whisky as he intervened. He slammed his palm into the man’s wrist, diverting the bullet as it fired out of the gun, missing the other man by only inches as it buried itself in the wall. Flip’s fingers closed around the gun as his left elbow slammed into the man’s face, knocking him back a few steps where he staggered. In seconds Flip had followed him backwards, slamming the base of the gun into his temple, sending the man hurtling to the floor where he remained unconscious. Flip’s breath was heavy in his lungs, chest heaving up and down with the adrenaline that filled him. He hadn’t noticed the bar had fallen silent in his action. He felt the stare of a hundred eyes on his back as he turned to face the other men, seeing their mouths open in disbelief. Needing to put some distance between himself and the situation, he placed the gun down on the pool table, grabbed his coat, and disappeared into the cold night. As he pulled his coat over his shoulders he wasn’t aware of Jimmy following behind him until he called out.

            “Hey, you!”

Flip turned round, eyeing the older man behind him with suspicion.

            “How’d you like to be a cop?”

He’d jumped at the opportunity. And still, he struggled to find a reason to regret his late-night decision. Between his duties as officer and his friendship with Jimmy, order had been restored to his life. He’d been straight ever since. Never more than five beers deep on a night with the boys, and he was wise enough to stay away from anything stronger. Until now, as he sits on his couch, downing the spirits until they threaten to erase her from his memory. All those lost to him, and now her too. But the loss isn’t the same. She hasn’t passed on but moved on, and somehow that hurts more. She’s still out there, alive and well. Just not with him. It’s a pain he’s never known. He’s always been the one to move on, get bored, find someone else. It’s that pain that drives his crusade, forces him to torture himself further, until his mind is so foggy he can’t even stand up straight in the comfort of his own home.

He’s awoken by the shrill ring of his house phone. It’s the seventh time Ron’s called him today, and it’s well into the afternoon already. Flip groans, stirs from his fixed position on the couch, body in last night’s clothes. He shifts his weight on the couch, hears the clinking of glass, a sea of drained alcohol reminding him of last night’s wallowing. He lets out a sigh, reaching a long arm towards the phone as he winces, the sound cutting straight through the pummelling that he feels against his skull, an army of men battering his brain.

            “What?” he groans down the line, rubbing an eye.

Ron’s momentarily taken aback by his tone before he remembers his anger.

            “Where the _hell_ have you been? It’s 3pm Flip, you were meant to meet Felix at 11 to pick up your robes.”

Flip drags a hand across his worn features. Felix. Just the mention of his name ruins what was left of his day. The sheer thought of him makes his fists clench. Any time away from that psychopath is time well spent.

            “Well? What’s your excu—” Ron’s voice is loud enough that Flip can still hear him when the phone is held inches from his ear.

            “I’m not doing this fuckin’ investigation anymore. I’m done with all of that crazy shit.” Flip’s words are strong down the phone.

            “You’re what?” Ron’s face is scrunched up on the other end of the phone as he sits forward at his desk, as if to hear the information a little clearer. “You can’t do that. That’s not your decision. We’re onto something here.”

            “It’s not you who’s in there day in day out with a bunch of fuckin’ psychopaths!” The veins of his neck strain against his skin as he raises his voice, his own volume worsening his headache. “This is costing you nothing. It’s cost me everything. I lost her because of your stupid investigation!”

Flip lets out a long breath, the admittance behind his words bringing back last night’s sorrow. It weighs own his mind, the lingering alcohol in his system doing nothing to dim it down. He grips the bridge of his nose tightly as he tries to push through the pain in his skull, only just able to process the regret of his words. Ron is quiet from the other end, unsure how to balance both the anger and sympathy he feels towards his co-worker. Moments of quiet pass between them, the static of the phone reminding them the other is still listening.

            “I’m sorry.”

The words sound empty coming from his mouth but it’s all he can muster, the shock of Flip’s outburst still knocks him back a bit. He wants to say so much more, but the words just don’t translate from mind to mouth. Though he would never say it, he knows how much she means to Flip. It’s obvious from the way he talks about her, the way he would sneak away from his desk to see her, always returning with that same lingering smile on his face. She soothes him, eases his mind, his body. So much so that Ron can tell when he’s seen her, even when he’s spoken to her. Under her influence, he’s a rational, put-together man. One who’s easy, maybe even fun, to work with. But without her he is this. A frustrated, irrational shell of a man. And the worst part? He can’t help it.

            “If she understoo—"

            “Don’t.” Flip cuts him off swiftly. “I… don’t want to talk about it.”

Ron holds his tongue, lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He thinks about his words carefully, knows they’re going to send his partner one of two ways. He can only hope it works in his favour.

            “I think… I think it would mean a lot to her if you were the man to bring down the KKK.” His words are apprehensive. “Don’t do this for me, or you. Do this for her.”

Though he wants nothing more to disagree, Flip feels his mind aligning with Ron’s thought process. He can do that for her. If for no other reason than to restore her faith in him, he’ll do it.

 

* * *

 

For her, the station is a constant reminder of their separation. It doesn’t matter that he’s never in the building these days, the familiarity of the walls is enough to remind her of him. Flip and the station are inseparable in her mind. One cannot come without the other. Their record room antics stay on her mind as she works, no matter how hard she tries to fight it. Those type of thoughts come back to her often. The thought of his hands on her, his mouth, his length. She’s been with other men before, but none quite like him. She’s known that from the beginning. She wouldn’t dream of letting another man have her the way he does, but with him it’s… different. When the mood takes her, it’s his face she imagines. His body intertwined with hers. His voice in her ear, moaning his appreciation. She’s learnt not to shake them off, it never works anyway. Though they frustrate her, it’s preferable to the deep longing she feels for him the rest of the time. The simple need to see his face, smell his scent, hear his knocks against her door. The absence makes her realise just how deeply she had cared for him, despite her best efforts. She longs for nothing more than to have his head rested in her lap, fingers in his hair as he looks up at her with her favourite brown eyes she hasn’t seen in weeks now.

There are times when she regrets her decision, the choice of words. Times where she wishes she had approached it differently, asked him rationally rather than blowing up in his face. But that’s the separation talking. It always is. She knows if she was faced with the same situation tomorrow she’d react the same. And why wouldn’t she? He was going against everything she believed in. More than that, he was putting her in danger. Whatever they had wasn’t worth that. She tries to remember that as she scours the local newspapers for job offers. Her role here had always been a last resort, she never thought she’d last this long. _Minorities encouraged to apply_ , the advertisement had read. She almost laughs when she thinks back to it. Every issue she had with the CSPD had been a _result_ of her minority status. They’d have been better off just being open with their discrimination. Everywhere else was. No matter how many times she rings, no matter how good her phone voice is, she never gets a call back from any of the advertisements. They aren’t interested in what she has to offer. New opportunities are in no rush to meet her.

            So, she remains.

In truth, it’s not the worst place to be. She’s earned her fair share of respect and the pay is good. That’s more than most of the other jobs could give her. And there’s always Ron and Jimmy. They are her only allies at the station now she’s lost contact with Flip. And though they are more his friends than hers, they treat her with the same respect and kindness, and for that, she is infinitely grateful. Ron had told her Flip was taking things hard, though he’d downplayed the situation. He hadn’t known him to be fully sober since, though he could hide it well, Ron could tell the signs. It hurt him to see his friend that way, so caught up by something he clearly hadn’t processed yet. And Flip being Flip, it was never discussed, never even mentioned. He let it devour him from the inside in silence. Though the thought of him struggling so choked her up inside, she couldn’t find it in herself to revoke her decision. In the deepest part of her mind, so tucked away she daren’t even admit to herself, she still holds out hope that one day he’ll come back into the records room and tell her it’s over. So she can be with him without guilt. So she can lust for his touch, his mind, without shame.

            It feels as if that day will never come.

 

* * *

 

            “I hear Martin Davis from church could use an extra pair of hands at the grocery shop,” her mother adds hopefully, laying out plates across the dinner table.

There’s a different table cloth on this week. A cream sheet with lightly embroidered edges. It’s one of her mother’s best, saved only for special occasions. The importance of this specific Sunday escapes her, though it’s not a pressing concern in her mind as she pulls a chair out to sit herself down in her usual spot.

            “Ma, if I get a job I want it to be because of me. Not some guy from church.” She dismisses.

The older woman pauses, cutlery clutched in her hand as she stares purse-lipped at her daughter. Since she’s learnt of her daughter’s plans to change job, their strain on their relationship has eased. Though it’s not completely free of tension, they’re grateful for the change.

            “Beggars can’t be choosers, you need out of that job. I ain’t raise you to turn your nose up at good honest work.” The words are firm.

            “That’s exactly why I took the job at the station.”

It’s a challenging statement and she knows it, but she holds strong as her stare is reflected straight back at her. A knock at the door interrupts their gaze.

            “Are we expecting someone?” her face bunches up in confusion, tension seemingly forgotten as she watches her mother make her way to the door.

Her question goes unanswered. When the door opens, she recognises a familiar face from behind it and instantly feels her heart speed up, chaotic with nerves.

            “Lucinda, how are you? Thanks for inviting me over.” He takes her mother into a firm handshake, kisses her cheek, crosses the door into the house like it’s nothing.

Miles Johnson. It’s a face she’s known her whole life, imprinted into every Sunday of her childhood. They used to be best friends, her and the pastor’s son. She would look forward to church on the weekend, knowing he’d be there. It didn’t occur to her until she hit her teens that she might have liked him. That all the church ladies’ comments about them making a beautiful couple might have been true. By the time she’d got a hold of her feelings, it was time for her to go to college. And since then, things had never really been the same. Though she attended church every weekend, he was always busy with something or other. Gradually taking over his father’s responsibilities as he grew old. Her breath is taken from her as he turns to face her, greets her with wide open arms as if they’d never lost touch.

            “And how about that, how long as it been?” she finds herself leaning into his arms, soaking up the contact as they hug. “It’s good to see you.”

She pulls away, tucks a stray hair behind her ears, still flustered at his arrival. He’s handsome as ever. Always has been. Beautiful dark skin, dazzling eyes, a smile that makes her feel warm inside. She’s used to his voice reciting sermons over the mic, but hearing him speak directly to her in his smooth tone makes her want to melt. She can hardly believe he’s the same guy.

            “It’s good to see you too, Miles. I… I didn’t know you were coming.” Her eyes dart to her mother.

            “You know I never turn down your Mom’s cooking.” He smiles.

She laughs with him, a little too loud, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His chuckle is deep, booming around the walls of her mother’s home. The sound brings her a comfort she doesn’t expect. It frustrates her she’s so flustered by him. _He used to be your best friend god damn it_ , she scolds herself, _get it together_.

            “Can I um… take your coat?” she fumbles, looking for something to say.

He shrugs out of the garment with ease, body sheathed in a cream turtleneck that accentuates every shape of every muscle. She tries not to look as she takes the coat from him, hangs it against the wall, eyes on the floor. When did he get so… _big_? Teenage Miles was a scrawny kid, all knees and elbows. The man that has taken his place surprises her. She would have never imagined her childhood friend with facial hair. A dark moustache lines his top lip, the scrubby beginnings of a beard lining his strong jaw and chin. His dark hair is forms the beginnings of an afro, well-kept and thick around his head. Framing his charming face. His presence demands attention. And he gets it too. The women at church fawn over him, hang on his every word as he preaches, fan themselves incessantly to cool down. Though he remains modest, calm, collected. Doesn’t let it go to his head. He settles into a seat at the table, making himself comfortable in the familiarity of the home. He doesn’t notice as she slips into the kitchen, joins her mother over the bubbling pots of food, whispers harshly to her.

            “You didn’t tell me you invited him?!” somewhere underneath her tone, there’s panic.

            “I thought it would be a nice surprise,” her mother says nonchalantly, scooping vegetables into a large dish. “You seem so down lately, you could use a lil’ somethin’ to cheer you up.”

Her mouth opens and closes, unsure of what words should come out. Though she keeps the reasoning of her sadness from her mother, she knows she’s right. She’s been downright miserable since her and Flip split. She tries to find hope in the sermons, but all they only bring her down. When she sits in the pew next to her mother, the only thing she feels her shame for believing in him in the first place. She doesn’t dwell on what she would say if she knew about him. About where he worked. Maybe she does need a distraction. And Miles is definitely… _distracting_.

            “I can dish up on my own, go give the boy some company.” Her mother insists, nudging her lightly in the ribs.

She returns to the table with a smirk, finding herself opposite Miles in her usual spot at the table. He watches her with as she does, shapely lips formed into a smile.

            “So, the last time you had dinner here would have been what… four years ago? Five?” she’s grasping at straws, not quite sure how to approach the new Miles that sits in front of her.

            “Thanksgiving of your first year in college,” he reminisces, “you spilt gravy all down your smart clothes.”

She palms her face, hides her embarrassed chuckles behind her fingers. Of course he would remember that. At least he finds it funny. Cute even.

            “Oh, so we’re bringing up embarrassing memories now? Is that what we’re doing?” she pipes up.

He spreads his arms out either side of him, welcoming the challenge.

            “Gimme all you got.”

            “That time you did your first reading in front of the congregation, when you were so nervous you farted and everyone heard it down the mic.” She raises her eyebrows, tries to deliver the line as matter of factly as possible, but can’t help but giggle at the end.

            “ _Wow_ ,” he draws out the word, claps his hands together as if to congratulate her on embarrassing him. “So this is really serious huh? Okay. Lemme think.”

He rubs his chin quizzically, recalls his memories of her in his mind. Thoughts of their lives together flashing before his eyes. He’s always crushed on her somewhere deep down though it took him until she left for college to realise it. He’s been meaning to catch up with her for some time, but the chances always manage to slip through his fingers.

            “What about that time you knocked over the flower display right in the middle of service? And they all fell like dominoes, right in the middle of the final hymn? The choir were picking petals out of their gowns for days.”

            “That’s not fair! You pushed me!” her protests are lost over his laughter, hands clutching his chest as he leans his head back over the seat, face lost in a blur of handsome joy.

            “Now now,” her mother soothes, bringing over two large pots of carrots and green beans. “no quarrelling at the table, maybe you two haven’t grown up after all.”

They collect themselves, both sharing the same guilty expression from their mischievous childhood. They remain quiet as the table begins to fill up with food and offer their thanks as their mother finally settles into her seat at the table.

            “Miles, if you’d do the honours.” She encourages.

She extends her hands across to each of them, bowing her head to close her eyes as they prepare for grace. Miles does so with ease.

            “Father, we have gathered to share a meal in your honour. You have provided for us again, and for that, we are grateful. We give thanks for good company, good times, and good food!”

His words are greeted with a laugh from the women. Though it goes against her innermost urges, she can’t help but open her eyes and look at him. To take him in in his natural state of prayer. He seems so focused, so intent on what he’s doing, so in love with the process. He’s exquisite. She closes her eyes quickly, bows her head before he can finish.

            “Bless our appetites, both physical and spiritual, to honour you in all we do. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.”

            The women mirror him. “Amen.”

            “That was beautiful Miles.” Her mother tells him.

He shakes off the compliment, clapping his hands together.

            “Let’s eat!”

He scoops up a hefty portion as always, she settles for a more modest serving. Though it’s still enough to have her full by the end of the meal. They catch up as they eat, talking briefly about a lot of things. His father, his ascension to pastor, her job search, her lack of success. She avoids telling him about the station. It’s not worth bringing up over the table, and besides, why ruin the mood? She hasn’t smiled this much in weeks, hasn’t felt true joy and laugher since… him. She avoids thinking about him over dinner. The sheer remembrance of him makes her feel guilty simply for enjoying Miles’ company. What is there to be guilty about? They were never explicitly together. She is, and technically always was, an available single woman. And it’s not like Miles is _that_ sort of companion anyway. At least not in her eyes. At least not until he’s putting his coat on and half way out the door.

            “You know it was good to really _see_ you, catch up. We should have never have lost touch, you and me.” The words stir up nerves in the pit of his stomach as he says them, his confidence dropping for the first time. “I… I’d like to see you again. Take you out sometime. …How ‘bout that?”

 _Take me out… like a date?_ she echoes in her mind. It takes a certain amount of self-restraint not to say it out loud and voice her surprise. It was always going to be on the cards at some point but still, hearing him actually ask makes her cheeks flush. She doesn’t allow herself to think of Flip as she answers.

            “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was actually kind of difficult to write. i didn't really know where i wanted to take things here (in my head i only ever planned the plot up until their split) so it took me some time to get to grips with how i wanted them both to react. however i really enjoyed digging a bit deeper into flip's past (there's more of that coming too!) i really love building up the back story i like to imagine him having. as for my OC, things are going to get... complicated for her. but as always, she'll handle it. and whew, miles miles miles. he practically wrote himself. i love his character already, he's so new and fresh? i like the parallels but also the similarities between him and flip. more on that later. and don’t worry! we are definitely going to see more of flip. this isn’t the be all and end all! just a ... diversion. again sorry this took a while! hopefully ch13 will be up sooner!
> 
> *ps. feel free to imagine miles however you like but in my head he looks like mcihael b jordan in this pic https://pmcvariety.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/michael-b-jordan-just-mercy.jpg?w=1000 (he's so fine i'm dfklsdjlflk, send help)
> 
> *psps. thank you SO much for over 600 reads! i would die for every single one of you beautiful bitches


	13. two sides of a coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prospect of a date with Miles is the only thing she's had to look forward to in a while, though she can't shake the feeling that it's a bad decision...

In the passing days between the dinner and her upcoming date, her mind grows cautious. She can’t help but overthink. What if Miles had only asked her out because her mother told him to? Even if she hadn’t, wouldn’t it be weird to date her childhood friend? What would his father think? He’d always found her to be a little boisterous. He’d given her more than a few reprimands through the years. Giggling too loud in church. Not acting a lady. Encouraging his otherwise well-behaved son to be just as mischievous as her. And although she’d grown up since then, she couldn’t shake the thoughts from her mind.

            And that wasn’t even the half of it.

No matter how much she told herself she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, that it was in the past, there were always the thoughts of Flip that crept into her mind. The endless comparisons of him and Miles. Flip was taller. Bigger built. Older. Extremely sexual. Kept his thoughts tucked way somewhere deep inside she’d never managed to find access to. Miles was the different. Still taller than her, but nowhere near Flip’s towering height. Not muscled enough to intimidate, but enough to assure he could hold his own. A hopeless romantic. His mouth was a thoughtless funnel straight from his brain, thoughts coming out as they entered his mind. Though it sometimes got him in trouble, she liked that about him. And then there was the obvious difference…

           Miles was a man of colour.

A man who shared her race, her culture, her religion. The topic of racism would never be foreign to him, the atrocity of her experiences would never shock him, for he would have his own. She wouldn’t have to worry about her mother’s opinion, the thoughts of her friends, the judgement of other black strangers on the street. She could welcome him into her house without second thought, leave the back door in her memories. She could remain at ease in his familiarity. Knowing there were conversations they would never need to have. Explanations that didn’t need making. And yet, that doesn’t bring her the comfort it should. The colour of their skin doesn’t determine their compatibility. For all she knows, he could be the lesser of two options. Other people’s opinions and shared experiences don’t mean anything if they’re not right for each other. She knows that. It’s those thoughts that carry her right up until the moment she next sees Miles.

            “Evenin’ lady,” he flashes her a dazzling smile from the comfort of her front porch.

One of his arms rests against her door frame, a white, thick-collared, woollen shirt worn underneath his navy jacket. She notices his hair looks slightly shorter than the last time he saw her, he’s neatened up. He looks handsome. She gulps, reminding herself that there’s no need to be nervous. She’s known him her whole life. _Act cool_ , she tells herself.

            “Look at you, all dressed up.” She muses.

            “I could say the same about you.”

He waves a finger towards her outfit; a fitting, brown-patterned dress with a high neckline. The swirling pattern does wonders for her shape, shades of lighter brown spanning across her body. It’s a little tighter than she remembers, and admittedly if it wasn’t for his promptness, she would have found something else to change into for worry of looking too overdressed. It’s the most dressed up he’s ever seen her outside of Thanksgiving, and even then, he’s never seen her in anything this… _sensual_.

            “Couldn’t have you looking better than me,” she teases, grabbing her coat and stepping out into the night.

Even if it weren’t for the clothes, he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her. Her hair is done up in neat curls, a light coat of mascara on her lashes, a chestnut shade on her lips. When she smiles, he feels all sense leave his mind.

            “I don’t think there’s any risk of that tonight.” He assures her, extending his arm for her.

She can’t help but admire his chivalry as she wraps her arm around his, follows his careful steps across her porch, mindful not to trap her heels between the wood. Something about his company feels right. Their footsteps carry them part way down the sidewalk before they come to a slow in front of a shiny Ford Cortina. Though it’s been treated well, it’s showing signs of its wear. It’s his father’s old car, the sight of it launches her into nostalgia.

            “I can’t believe he let you have Marcia!” She laughs, breaking free from him to run her fingers across the bonnet. “You renting her for the night?”

Miles watches her with affectionate eyes, already wondering why it is it’s taken him so long to take her out. She’s the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen.

            He plays along with her joke. “Mhm. Have to have her home by 10.”

She turns, locks eyes with him.

            “Then we’d better get going.”

The radio plays smooth jazz music as they drive, though it’s barely heard over their conversation. They talk without gaps, always finding something to discuss or some old memory to bring up. It feels so familiar and yet so new at the same time. Their nerves fade away bit by bit, and by the time he’s opened her car door to escort her out, she can’t even remember why she ever felt them. He holds her hand as they cross the parking lot to their destination; a steakhouse and bar further out of their town. It’s a little out of the way from where they live, but it’s his treat. He wants to show her he’s serious. That he’s ready to provide. If she’ll let him.

            “You’re really pushing the boat out huh?” she elbows him playfully in the ribs as they walk through the door.

            “Honey, I own the boat.”

Her laugh is uncontained, head thrown back and hand sprawled across his chest in amusement as they pass through the door. The bar is to the right of them, the tables to their left in a neat arrangement. He mainly stays off the alcohol, only drinking on special occasions but tonight he guides her to the bar with ease. If this isn’t a special occasion, what is? He leans his elbow on the bar, turns to face her, eyes falling over every detail of her face before he speaks.

            “I don’t normally drink but tonight I can make an exception,” he charms, retrieving his wallet from his jacket, “what can I treat you to?”

The way he speaks draws her in, every sentence from his mouth is like a song. She could listen all day.

            “I’ll take a Rosé, thank you.”

She admires his profile as he waits to get the bartenders attention. He has a rounded, wide nose, not unlike her own, with soft eyes that put her at ease. Her gaze strays from him to the rest of the room. She’s never been here before, never bothered to venture this far out of town for a bite to eat. It goes without saying that they’re the only black couple in the whole place, they’re miles away from anywhere that would suggest different. If there’s one thing that work has taught her, it’s to become more comfortable in those type of situations. She feels no worry as her eyes scan over the crowd, not minding the looks that come back her way, staring as if she were an animal free of her enclosure. It’s not until she has her gaze returned straight back at her that her heart stops dead in her chest, stomach sinking a thousand feet. She’d know those eyes anywhere.

            Flip Zimmerman.

His giant frame is hunched into the end chair at a group table, his dark eyes staring straight into her soul. His hair has grown longer than she’s seen it before, his face more gaunt than she remembers. Dark circles are beginning to appear beneath his eyes, his jaw held tight as he locks eyes with her. He looks as if he’s wearing away, as if the toxicity of the Klan is eating him from the inside out. She can’t help but feel sorry, the part that still wants him urging her to care. The shock and guilt of the situation freeze her in place, unable to even release the breath that’s stuck in her throat. She tries to imagine the pain she’d feel if the roles were reversed, if it was him with his arms wrapped around some shapely blonde, eyes pouring over her body. The thoughts makes her sick. Just from the set of his brow she can see the rage inside him, but the slight part of his mouth tells another story.

           The disappointment. The betrayal. The hurt.

He watches her smile drop the second she sees him, every essence of joy draining from her face, replaced only by dread. He can remember a time the opposite was true. He can’t process all the emotions that circle him, that batter what’s left of his happiness. She as beautiful as he’s ever seen her; hair hanging by her face in bunched up curls, lips painted dark, smile shining through every time they part. Body wrapped in silky material, so close but so so far. Even though it hurts, it’s the closest he’s been to happy since they split. He feels the pain of it like a punch straight to the chest, a fist straight though his ribs and out the other side. It’s his worst nightmare realised, staring him in the face and knocking the life straight out of him. Her, all done up on a Friday night with another man on her arm. Him, sat with the Klan discussing cross burnings, Walter’s white power shirt barely concealed by his jacket.

            “Do you want dry or sw— _are you okay_?”

She can hear Miles’ voice in her ear, but it feels distant, muffled. As if underwater. She knows she needs to reply, but she can’t jerk the words from her mouth. Can’t tell her lips to move and her voice to release sound. She’s sure she hasn’t blinked since she first saw Flip. Miles tries to follow her gaze, find the source of her paralysis. A table of white men. Though the same could be said for every table, what makes them any different? The second he places his hand on her shoulder, she watches Flip’s jaw tighten, his hands clench into tight fists around his cutlery.

            “Ron, what the fuck are you looking at? Are you even listening?” Walter snaps, waving his fork in front of his face, bloody, bite-sized steak still attached to the end.

Felix follows his eyes, sets his hateful stare upon the couple, Miles’ arms now on either of her shoulders as he tries to ask her the question again, to figure out what’s wrong.

            “I… I want to leave. We need to leave.” The words are a whisper at most.

The conviction behind her statement tells him not to question her. Only to trust her words. He nods, pushes past the disappointment of his failed date to prioritise her feelings. He turns to the barman, tells him to call off the drinks, utters his apologises as he receives a string of abuse. But she barely hears it. She can feel the heat of Felix’s gaze on her, knows as she sees the other men on the table turn around that they’re Klan. The disgust is painted across their faces as they notice her, a black woman, in the otherwise all white venue. Her stomach churns, and for a moment she feels as if she might vomit in fear. She pushes the way out of the bar, needing fresh air and a million miles of space.

            “Ron that nigger’s lookin’ straight at—.” Ivan blunders, voice loud in the small room.

Flip slams his closed fist down against the table in fury, makes all the plates jump an inch off the wood, glasses jostle and beers spill over the rest of the men. He hears one of them curse.

            “ ** _Don’t_** —” he bellows, stops himself short of fully losing his temper in front of the men.

 _Don’t fucking call her that._ He takes a deep breath, feels the other men staring at him in confusion. Felix’s eyes bore into the side of his face. A few of the surrounding tables have stopped their conversations to look at him. When he next speaks he reminds himself to watch his volume.

            “Don’t fucking finish that sentence. You talk too loud, you dumb motherfucker.” His words are a verbal knockout, silencing the men at the table as well as the surrounding few.

Ivanhoe closes his mouth, lowers his head like a badly-behaved dog. Silence falls over the table, stretching the tension between the men. Flip keeps his eyes on what’s left of the steak in front of him, reminds himself to keep his breathing even. He can’t come that close to losing his temper again. It’s not safe, for him or them. But the thought of them knowing about her, _hurting_ her… that triggers something deep inside him he knows he can’t control. He has to make sure they never cross paths like this again.

            “Ron’s right.” Walter states begrudgingly. “You never know who’s listening. We have to keep up a good public appearance.”

Flip doesn’t even raise his eyes, doesn’t even register the words in his mind. He’s far away from the table now.

            “Well shit, can Ron be right without spilling half my fucking beer?” Felix snaps, snatching up his napkin to pat down his soaked front.

Outside, she places her hands on the bonnet of the car, hunches over and tries to catch her breath, though it feels as though it’ll never come. She sucks at the cold night air, practically hyperventilating as she tries to talk herself down from her near panic attack. They had seen her face, stared at her features long enough to memorise them. And they had _definitely_ seen her looking at Flip. Whether they were perceptive enough to notice she recognised him was another matter. She didn’t want to think about what it meant for both of them if they had. She can hear Miles’ footsteps approaching her and straightens up, gulps down the rising panic and prepares for the questions she knows are going to come. Her mind feels too panicked to string up a plausible lie, so she speaks before her can ask her anything.

            “I’m sorry about that I just…I didn’t expect to see them there, it threw me off.”

Just from his words he can tell her mind is somewhere else, but he can’t help but pry.

            “How do you know them?”

Her eyes flick up to him, see the concern painted across his features; the softness of his eyes, the knitting of his brow. He watches her jaw twitch, eyes briefly leaving his before returning back to him, and knows whatever she’s about to say isn’t the whole truth.

            “Just… some guys from work.” The next words are fast out of her mouth. “Why don’t we hit up somewhere in town instead?”

He chooses not to challenge her, still eager to salvage what’s left of the date.

            “Sure,” his allows a smile to spread across his face as he unlocks the car and opens the door for her, “after you.”

She returns his expression and slides into the passenger seat, smile dropping from her face the second she’s out of his sight.

****

* * *

 

Against Ron’s advice, Flip is at the station first thing on Monday morning. He needs to talk to her. Needs to warn her. Tell her how dangerous Friday could have been. If they’d have followed her, if they’d have noticed how she looked at him… how she _recognised_ him. It would have been over for her. Him too if he wasn’t careful. That’s what he keeps telling himself, that he’s doing this to keep her safe. That he needs to see her to protect her, and not because he needs to know she still cares for him, still needs him the way he needs her. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say as he walks through the station, ignores the shocked looks at his appearance on his way to the records room. He can see her through the glass as he pauses outside, her slender arms reaching up to place something back on the shelf. It’s been so long since he’s seen her like this, felt the warmth of the station on his skin, the scent in his nose. The longer he stands there the more he convinces himself it’s a bad idea, that he should just leave her be. He’d driven home in a rage that night, slammed his door behind him, overturned tables, smashed glass, screamed into the emptiness of his kitchen. And it still wasn’t enough. She’s clearly happy with her new partner, she hasn’t stopped smiling that night until she saw him. He’s a better option for her. He’s lost in his thought by the time she turns around, eyes finding his big fame through the blinded glass. She lets out a deep sigh as he enters, her shoulders sagging down underneath her cardigan. Just the sight of him makes her heart ache. He’s not the man she fell for anymore. He seems so drained, like the life has been sucked right out of him. Maybe it has. But even after everything, she still wants to help. Wants to reach across the gap between them and hold his face in her hand, press her lips to his forehead, to fix him.

            “Is it serious, you and him?” He can’t even look at her as the words come from his mouth, nearly breaking somewhere in the middle.

He asks the question even though he’s unsure if he can handle the answer, handle the weight of those words once they’re spoken, out in the open air.

            “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be Flip.” She’s begging him.

Flip rubs his palm across his chin, feels the coarse hair underneath his fingers. He hadn’t been able to see it the other night, she’d been too far for him to properly read her expression, but he knows now. The longing in her eyes, the quiet tone of her voice. She still cares about him. The realisation gives him strength, gives him hope. But he needs to hear it.

            “Just… answer the question.”

No, it’s not serious between them, but she can’t bring herself to say that. Doesn’t want to open the door for him to come back, for him to know she still has room for him somewhere within her. Partly that, and she doesn’t want to admit it to herself. If she does that, it’s only a matter of time before she succumbs to him once more.

            “What would it matter if we were? Flip we’re not together anymore, I… I don’t know if we ever where.” Her eyes are focused on the desk for fear of looking at him, she can feel the emotions bubbling in her stomach and prays she doesn’t well up like last time.

            “ _Bullshit!_ ” His shout makes her jump. “We had something god damn it!”

His voice bounces off the walls in the small room, surrounds her with the volume of his protests and shocks her out of her sadness. She doesn’t want to shout, doesn’t want to stand there and argue with him at work but the tone of his voice brings it out of her.

            “And who’s fault is it that we lost it, huh?” She pipes up, voice matching. “You don’t get to talk to me like that, you think I _wanted_ this?”

He drags his fingers down either side of his chin, tries to compose himself as he hears her shout back. It doesn’t work.

            “I know it’s my fault, okay? I think about it _every fucking day_. I can’t get you out of my fucking mind, it’s like you’re stuck, right in here,” he hammers his fingers against the side of his skull, lips curling up over his teeth as he yells. “Everything I’m doing with the Klan is for yo—”

She can barely believe what she’s hearing.

“How could you _possibly_ be working with them for _me_? How _exactly_ did you work that one out Flip? Tell me. I’d love to know.”

            “ ** _God_**!” He roars, voice so deep it barely sounds like a word. “It’s like you’re _trying_ to drive me insane.”

            “Clearly it’s working,” she hisses.

She’s thought about seeing him for so long, about what she would say to him if she did, about how things would play out. She’d never imagined it like this, both of them at each other’s necks in the middle of her work, their voices probably audible outside the room. She thinks about grabbing her bag and straight up leaving. She doesn’t need this. Doesn’t need him.

            “Maybe it is,” he concludes, his voice below a shout for the first time.

He feels defeated. Realises he’s done the total opposite of what he wanted to do. If anything, he’s made things worse. Dug a grave for the remnants of their relationship. His breath is heavy as he looks at her, her brow set hard above her eyes, lips in a tight line. The hope he had before has long since faded away. He turns toward the door, finds the strength to offer her a final parting.

            “I hope he makes you happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to get this chapter up asap because i know i left you guys on a bit of a cliff hanger last time (what else is new?), plus i knew the introduction of miles probably came as a shock so i wanted to establish that she's not totally done with flip yet. even though she's interested in miles there's something that tethers her to flip and i really wanted to explore that in this chapter. plus i know some of you wanted a bit of jealous flip so!! here it is!! going to try and be as speedy as i can with my next chapters because i've mapped out where i want the rest of the plot to go and there are some big things coming up! 
> 
> (i know it seems like a final ending but.... this is, and will always be a flip/reader fic. we're not done yet)


	14. holy ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her relationship with the church causes unexpected repercussions as she finds herself seeking help from an unlikely source...

The church has become her second home. She often goes there straight after work, helps with small tasks. She takes a shine to the flower displays, always re-adjusting their arrangements, determined to have them match the image in her mind. She is, without a doubt, a believer. A little flippant with some of the religion’s teachings, she can admit that, but that doesn’t make her any less valid in her mind. Her sexual expression and potty mouth don’t make her any less of a Christian. Whenever she finds herself in times of crisis, it’s God she turns to, a small prayer in her mind in her time of need. She’s needed Him a lot recently. Though it’s not Christ she seeks on these visits, its Miles. She rarely sees him outside the church these days. He’s in his element on Holy Ground, but she can’t help but think it wouldn’t hurt to take a step outside every now and then. Whenever she brings it up, she gets the same answer.

            “The church is my life, you know that.” Each time she hears it it’s a little less charming, a little more stern.

She knows she’s not asking too much. She’s always there after work, no matter how long the days are, ready to help the church for his benefit. It’s not too much to ask for him to extend the same care to her. To take her out once in a while. Although their only date was tarnished by Flip’s surprise appearance—she’s grateful at least that he doesn’t bring that up—she’s eager for another. The only times she has him to herself is when he walks her home after church. It’s those times she uses to her advantage, leaning on his arm, steps slow to soak up every second of his company. But it doesn’t matter how hard she hints, how hard she flirts, he never comes past her porch. He can never seem to back up the charm that’s laced into his voice.

            “I better say goodnight,” he excuses, “it’s getting late.”

Her shoulders sag with disappointment every time she hears the words. The first few nights he’d been reluctant to properly kiss her, settling for a gentle brush of his lips across her cheek as he offered his goodbye. She knows in her mind it’s not all about _that_ sort of thing, she can’t help but wish things would speed up. She knows it won’t be like it was with Flip. If anything, things with him were a little bit _too_ fast. After all, Miles is a man of the church. But she can’t help herself from wondering what exactly is holding him back. The only time they’d _really_ kissed, he’d pulled away so fast she’d barely even had time to feel his lips against her own. She’d never had that before. In fact, she often had a problem getting men to _stop_ kissing her.

            This… this was new.

Her mind wonders whether he’s getting bored of her, whether he’s ventured into their relation and decided it’s too late to make a U-turn. If it was anyone else, she’d have it out with them. Stare them dead in the eye and ask them what the hell their problem was. Did he want to date her or not? She didn’t have time to waste. Except this time, she does. She has patience with Miles, because all in all, she wants to make it work. Wants _him_ to make it work. She’s so wrapped up in the idea of him, of what they could be together, that she’s willing to put aside her normal feistiness. He fills the Flip-shaped gap in her heart. Though the fit’s a little wrong in places, she’ll take it.

            That’s what she tells herself as she carries herself to church that Saturday.

Maybe she just needs to try a little harder, catch his attention. Remind him that she’s here, she’s interested, and it’s down to him to keep it that way. Her hair is curled neatly around her face, a thin coat of mascara on her already long lashes, gloss glazing her plump lips. The frill of her skirt sits just above her knee, not afraid to bare leg now the early February weather is a touch warmer. Her long coat mainly conceals her as she pushes through the doors, spots Miles instantly in the church aisle as he converses with his father. She offers him a quick wave, not wanting to distract him while he engages in what looks like an important conversation with the Pastor. She goes about her normal routine: sheds herself of her coat and gets to organising the hymn books, picking them up off the floor where the unruly children of the Saturday service have left them. She piles them up onto her knees as she crouches, and although she tries not to listen, she can’t help but hear the conversation between Miles and his father heat up.

            “And _that’s_ the type of woman you’re bringing into this church? She’s dressed like a downtown street walker! _That’s_ who you want me to give my blessing to? I don’t think so. You can’t run this church with a woman like that dangling off your arm. Women like that want a lot of things… but commitment isn’t one of them.”

The words hit her like a truck, almost knock her off her feet as she crouches behind the pews. His words bring about a strong sense of shame, the pain that comes with it all too familiar. Thoughts of college spring to her mind, other girls quick to critique her for her intimacy. Before she’d even lain with a man they had slated her just based on the way she looked. Still, to this day, she hadn’t pieced together how dress sense had made her a slut. The pain of their words is at the forefront of her mind. She clenches her jaw, holds on tight to the tears she can feel brewing. Not from sadness, but from anger. The sheer ferocity of the thoughts running through her mind tell her she needs to put some distance between herself and the premises. She cannot explode like that. Not here. Not in church. She slams the books down on the floor, storms past the aisle in her neat heeled shoes and snatches her coat from the hanger, barely able to hear Miles’ chasing feet as he pushes through the doors and out onto the street after her.

            “Hey! Hey.” He shouts after her, picking up a brisk paced walk as she storms off. “Can we talk about this?”

She spins round on her heel, so fast he almost walks straight into her front. Her curled hair bounces around her face, frames her furious features.

            “And what is there to talk about Miles? How your dad just called me a hooker?”

            He gulps. “So… you heard that …”

            “Of course I heard it! The whole god damn neighbourhood probably heard it!”

If the neighbourhood hadn’t already heard, they certainly have now as her voice begins to soar. He rubs his hand across his chin, doesn’t let his eyes leave the sidewalk beneath their feet. He tries to remain as collected as he can. He chooses his words carefully.

            “Look, you’ve got it all wrong… he didn’t mean it like that—” He defends.

            “He _didn’t mean_ to call me a hooker?”

He can almost feel the heat of her words, the pronunciation of her words feeling like slaps to the face.

            “Just… _listen_ to me for a second, okay?” He sighs, placing his hands palm against palm.

The patronising tone to her voice riles her somewhat, but she remains quiet. Bites the inside of her cheek and folds her arms as he opens his mouth to speak. Unless the next words out of his mouth are a heartfelt apology and a denial of agreement with his father’s views, she has no interest in what he has to say.

            “He’s got this image in his head of what he wants for me, when I’m Pastor. He wants the right woman to be by my side, to be my wife.” He says the words very carefully, doesn’t let his eyes leave hers for a second, trying to gauge her response.    “And… I don’t think you fit that description.”

            “So you agree with him?” She accuses, already knowing the answer as she watches him stutter.

            “I – I think if you changed the way you dressed, you know, cover up a little—"

Her eyebrows form angry arches above her eyes as she cuts him off, shrill voice filling the daytime air. She had thought, just for a moment, that he might have been making amends, might have been able to take back his father’s words and replace them with his own righteousness. All she hears is his thinly veiled agreement. She can’t quite believe that someone who’s known her as long as he has could turn around and disrespect her like this. Could become so wrapped up in his own image of what a woman should be like that he can’t accept otherwise. The thought of it makes her want to smack him. _Hard_. His words are like lighter fluid to a flame.

            “ _Cover up_? Are you serious?” Her hands wave around in the air, as if swatting flies. “So, a girl can’t be wife material to you and show her knees, is that what you’re telling me?”

            “It’s not about the knees. It’s about… wanting attention, about wanting men to look at you like…” He gestures his hand down her body, knowing the second he says the words that there’s no turning back.

They’ve had their arguments before, but never to this stature. He’s never seen this side of her, and she this side of him. In just a few short exchanges, she’s learnt all she needs to know about him. He can feel himself growing angry, the tension in his muscles building as he takes in the volume of her voice. When he speaks next, he doesn’t sound as angry as he is. He sounds disappointed, and somehow, that’s worse.

            “Like they want to fuck me. Just say it Miles. We’re both adults.” The words are practically spat, cast out of her mouth with a tangible aggression.

He bites his tongue, unable to repeat the explicit words back to her. Her freedom of speech and body has frustrated him for some time, but he has kept quiet. Ignored the issue. Convinced himself that with a little work, and a little time, he could mould her into the woman he needs. Into the woman his father expects. He should have known she would be more trouble than that. He finally allows himself to look her in the eyes, to take in the face his father disapproves of. She stares straight back at him, her beauty contorted into an image of rage. Until that moment, he hadn’t taken in how stunning she had looked. The effort she had put in, partially for his benefit, but also for her own. If she wasn’t so angry, the thought might make her chuckle. All that time, wasted, and for what? For a man who can’t accept a woman’s freedom over her own body?  

            “A woman shouldn’t speak like that.” He reprimands her, using that same tone he uses in his sermons.

She takes a step closer to him on the sidewalk, stretches a slim leg across the gap between them as she leans closer to his face, finger pointing square in his chest. It takes all her strength not to outright slap him, watch his handsome head jerk to the side underneath her palm.

            “This woman can speak however the fuck she wants, and you want to know why?” She pauses, more for her own benefit than his, if he even uttered a word she would silence him instantly. “Because whatever we had, whatever we were _going_ to have, it’s **over**.”

It feels good to say the words, to have them out in the air. She knows she means them too. She feels no guilt as she watches his face twinge, his eyebrows wrinkle up in something close to confusion. As if their conflicting views had not been enough to solidify the end of their relation. She hopes he feels the weight of his decision, both their potential relationship and life-long friendship dissolving into nothing as a result of his lacking respect. She studies his face once more, takes in all the details before she turns, leaves him behind on the sidewalk, her exposed legs peeking through the opening of her coat.

 

* * *

 

As she walks through the station that morning, coffee warm in her hand, she finds herself making her way to the intelligence office, knuckles gentle against the glass as she knocks. Jimmy spins around in his chair, eyes landing on her with a surprised, yet pleased expression. He beckons her in with a wave of his hand. She passes through the office door, into the space that still feels foreign to her.

            “You know where Ron is?” she asks.

            “Back room,” he answers, “but—”

Before Jimmy can finish his sentence, she hears the opening of a door behind her and turns on her heel, expecting to see Ron but finding someone else entirely. Flip seems as shocked to see her as she is him. His dark eyes focus on her and nothing else, lips slightly parted from the sight of her. Still to this day, she can take his breath away. And though she’d rather not admit it, his presence still brings an excited twinge to her stomach. It feels like years since she’s seen him, and she’d be lying if she said her mind hadn’t thought back to him in the weeks since her separation from Miles. She can’t help but notice the flush of his cheeks, his dark, rippled hair sitting now at his shoulders. He’s no less of the giant he’s always been. Her eyes flitter over his large frame as he stands in front of her. She feels her heart speed up as she drags her eyes from him, focuses them on Ron. She can’t believe he still makes her feel that way. Something tells her that might never change.

            “Ron, can I borrow you for a minute?” she asks, her voice is lacking her usual confidence.

            “Sure,” he agrees quickly, eager to ease the tension. “Come through.”

He motions for her to follow him, leads her into the back room of the office. She follows him hesitantly, feels Flip’s eyes on her as she passes him, reminds herself not to look in his direction. There’s a single seat waiting for her in the back room, she plants herself in it, presses herself against the wall. The last time she had graced this room with her presence, her bare knees had been pressed against the floor, wrists cuffed behind her back, handfuls of her hair grasped between Flip’s hands as he’d rocked himself into her mouth. The sight of him outside burns the image into her mind once more. She crosses her legs.

            “What can I help you with?” Ron scratches the back of his head, brown waistcoat accentuating his shape as he moves.

She tries to clear her mind of impure thoughts as she places her coffee down on the sleek, black table. She’s here for a serious reason, she can’t let the thoughts of one man distract her.

            “It sounds crazy but… I think… I’ve noticed a car following me the past few weeks.” She tries to convince herself she’s not sounding as stupid as she thinks.

Ever since her run in with Landers, she’s been hyperaware of those sorts of things. Always looking over her shoulder whenever she’s alone. And though she’s tried to tell herself it’s just coincidence, something doesn’t sit right with her about this particular car. 

            “That’s not crazy at all,” Ron reassures her, “Can you describe it?”

One of the few things her role at the station has given her is a new sense of attention to detail. She’s flicked through so many case files, so many crime reports, that she knows exactly what information to look out for in case of a crime. Though she’s no good with cars, she can remember the license plate by heart.

            “I don’t know the model… But it’s beige, and the license plate is TLW 901.”

She watches Ron’s body go rigid, his eyes bulge in his head before he regains his composure. She instantly feels something in her stomach drop, the innate fear the vehicle brings her increasing tenfold with her friend’s reaction. He digs his fingers into his bicep as he keeps his arms crossed, reminds himself not to scare her any more than she already is.

            “I’m just… going to grab a case form, can you give me a moment?” He doesn’t give her time to respond as he slips out of the room, making sure the door is shut behind him.

He bursts out of the room, heads straight to his desk, yanking out the top draw to retrieve a thick, brown folder. He can feel the other men’s gazes as he scrambles through the photographs in the file until he finds the one he wants. It confirms everything he wishes it wouldn’t: _he recognises that car_. All the gulps in the world can’t sooth his nerves, still his hammering heart as he holds the photograph in his hand.

            “What’s the matter?” Flip’s voice is grave as he asks, knowing just from his partner’s stance that something is very, very wrong.

            “She identified this car,” he passes Flip the image, “said it’s been following her recently.”

As soon as Flip lays eyes on the photograph he feels his stomach sink somewhere deep, right down past his feet, past the floor, somewhere so far down he can’t even process. She said this would happen one day, that he was putting her in danger simply by being with her. And now, it’s happened. His biggest fear projected into real life. It only takes a second of eye contact between the men before they’re both making their way back in to the room. The moment she sees the two of them together, she knows it’s not good news.

            “It’s bad, isn’t it?” She doesn’t need an answer to a question, she can already tell.

She knows Flip well enough to see the concern on his face, the worry. Ron takes out some photographs and places them on the table in front of her. The car from her recollection stares up at her from various angles.

            “That car belongs to a member of the Klan. His name is Felix Kendrickson.” Ron’s voice is level as he explains.

He lays another photograph on the table, the Klan member’s face glaring up from the table. His slicked back hair, thick moustache and murderous eyes are an instant reminder. He’s one of the men from the bar that night. Her breath hitches in her throat. A part of her, somewhere she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, had considered that possibility before. Had maybe even known that this would be the result, but hearing it confirmed still makes her shudder.

            “When was the last time you saw it?” Flip probes, rubbing his fingertips over his overgrown goatee.

            “Last weekend. It’s always outside my church… Sometimes I see it on my way to work. I’ve seen it drive around my neighbourhood a few times, but never near my house.”

She can feel her heartbeat speed up as she talks, mind spiralling into panic as she thinks of what this could mean. Was he following her? Tracing her down after that night at the bar? Did he know where she lived? Did he know about Flip? Her eyes meet Flip’s. She can see the distress behind his dark eyes, the twitching of his mouth as he bites the inside of his cheek, tries to work out his nerves.

            “You’re _sure_ you’ve never seen it outside your house, he’s never followed you home?” Flip’s hand grasps at the air as he seeks clarification.

            “I’m sure.”

He gives her a firm nod. That he can work with. He paces around the small room, turns his back on both his partner and his lost lover, tries to piece together the details of the situation. His mind runs back over her words, tries to identify a pattern.

            "You said you always see it outside the church?”

She nods, unsure of where this question is meant to lead. Heart still thrashing inside her chest.

            “It’s always parked outside service on Sundays, but I’ve seen it there a few of the weeknights. Always in the same spot.”

There was talk among the klan of something big brewing, though he hadn’t been able to piece together what. After all these months, Felix was still shaky about trusting him with any specific detail. He had to get all his intel from Ivanhoe, and everyone knew he was a few eggs short of a dozen. Information with him always needed to be taken with a pinch of salt. He’d heard him mutter a few words about an event, “ _something to hit those niggers where it matters_ ” but he’d seen that as nothing more than his drunk ramblings. After all, Ivanhoe wasn’t known for his sobriety. But he was known for his loose mouth. A dark thought clicks in Flip’s mind.

            “What if…” he turns, sees the expectant faces looking to him for answer. “What if they’re not following you… what if they’re monitoring the church.”

            “But that doesn’t make any sense… that doesn’t explain the other times.” She’s grasping at straws, refusing to believe what she’s hearing.

            “Felix lives on the west side of town, he’d have to drive back through your neighbourhood to get to and from the church.” Flip explains.

She looks to Ron, desperate eyes searching for an alternative answer. Ron offers her nothing, simply runs over his chin as comes to the same ominous conclusion of his partner.

            “Ron, can you put in a request for their bank transactions? If we can see what they’re spending money on, we can work out what it is they might be planning— _if_ they’re planning anything.”

Ron nods at Flip’s request, leaving the room to begin his work. As soon as the door closes behind him, Flip turns his eyes to her. She has an arm rested against the table, her foot tapping excessively to keep the panic in her stomach at bay. She’d preferred it when she thought he was just following her. At least that meant no one else would be in danger. Flip crouches down in front of her chair, watches the worry knit its way into her features. Her soft eyes focus on the floor, unable to rise them to look at him. He wants nothing more than to reach out his hand, cup her face, press her lips to his forehead, tell her he’s going to fix everything. He doesn’t even know if he can, doesn’t even know if there’s anything _to_ fix, but he’d do it for her.

            “Hey, _hey_ ,” he encourages her gently, “I’m not going to let any harm to come to you, or the church.”

He’s unsure if he can even keep his promise as the words leave his mouth, but he knows he’ll do everything in his power to try. She allows herself to look at him. His soft eyes still look at her the same way they used to, full of awe, almost glistening in the dim light of the room. It doesn’t matter what she tries to tell herself, she has missed them, missed _him_. She stops fighting the urge in her stomach, collapses forwards onto him, rests her forehead on the crook of his shoulder. She feels her nerves fade as his hand comes up to rub her back, big palm smoothing over her shoulders. She leans into his touch, trusting him once more to protect her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was so long guys! it's taken me a long time to work out how i wanted this chapter to play out, especially her split from miles. he's been such a good character the past few chapters that i didn't want to make the breakup feel forced so hopefully this doesn't feel that way. plus, his thinking is really in line with what a lot of men at the time (and now) think about women, and makes sense especially from his soon-to-be-pastor status. as for her interaction with flip, i think it sums up a lot about how she feels about him, she want so badly to let him in again but she's scared about what that means for them, especially now.
> 
> finally another thank you to everyone who's interacting with this, i'm so so stunned it's made it to 800 reads! who knows if we'll make it to 1,000? hopefully speedier updates from here (i break up from uni next week), don't be shy to tell me what you think!


	15. after all this time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ride home from Flip puts things in perspective.

Though she spends the rest of the day at work her mind is somewhere far, thoughts swarming round her mind like flies to trash. It wanders to the church. Imagines the building of her childhood scattered with the blood of its believers, filled with the screams of weekend worshippers. The bodies on the ground in her vision are those of her fellow congregation. The woman who would babysit her on weeknights when her mother pulled a late shift. The man with the baritone voice during the hymns. The girl a few years younger than her who would always cry during sermons when she was a baby. She thinks of her mother, unbeknownst to the horror that could await her this Sunday. The terror of her thoughts eats away at her from the inside, turns her into half the woman she is. She navigates the records room like a woman half dead. Barely speaking, barely moving. She ignores the small talk when it comes her way, pays no mind to the kind words of men who had hated her only months ago. Her mind is not with them. It is only when the day is over, shift finished, that her mind is returned to her. When a large shadow graces the door of the record’s room as she picks up her bag and wraps her coat around her.

            “I’m giving you a ride home.” Flip speaks the words as fact.

He leans against the door frame, dark hair stark against the white collar of his Sherpa jacket. A few months ago, the sight of him like that would have her grinning ear to ear. Just the knowledge that he had left work early to take her home was enough to soothe even the darkest of days. She would practically skip her way to his car, lean against the bonnet as he fumbled for his keys, watch his big hands turn over the cool metal with his fingers. This is not that time.

            “Is that safe?”

            “It’s safer than you walking,” he concludes dryly, not missing a beat.

There’s another question perched on her lips but she holds it back, fights against the urge to make things difficult. After all, she does want his help. Does regret the series of events that has led them to their current situation. She subsides, accepts the offer from the man that is no longer hers. They walk to the car in silence, ignore the looks from the other men as they pass through the station, enough space between their bodies to indicate it’s not like before. As they settle into the car she is hit with nostalgia. All the car journeys with him flooding back to her like a tidal wave. His hair billowing in the wind when he drove with the windows down. His roaring road rage. His left hand on the wheel, right stretched across the seats to hold the inside of her thigh, sometimes venturing further if he was especially impatient. She keeps her eyes on the window as she thinks of the now. His hand perched awkwardly on his thigh, her knees tucked towards the door of the car, sealing off her body from him. The rain against the window does little to soothe her mind as they drive.

            “Did you mean what you said… earlier today,” her soft words sound like screams in the silence of the car.

She watches his face, studies the profile of the face she once knew. His eyes stare out at the road ahead, mouth set in a tight line. Cheekbones sharp against his skin, her favourite birth mark just visible to the right of his nose. She hears him exhale, watches his grip tighten against the wheel for a moment as they turn a corner.

            “I wouldn’t break my promise to you,” his eyes are unmoving from the road as he speaks. “I won’t let anything happen to the church.”

He tries to keep his mind from their relation, to focus only on his promise to her. The thought of what they once had only brings him pain. His duty now is to keep her safe, nothing more. She has her other man to fill in his old spot. To give her the love he could never admit.

            She gulps. “I meant about me.”

The words stir him from his focus. He turns his head to her, takes in the expression on her face. Her searching eyes, parted lips, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. He wishes he could read her thoughts, determine what it is she feels for him. Whether it matches his own feelings towards her. His eyes return to the road, they are only minutes away from her home now.

            “I care about you too much to let anyone hurt you,” his hands shift around the wheel as he pulls to a stop at the end of her road. “I hoped you know that by now.”

His dark eyes fall on her again, pouring over every detail of her face. Her long lashes, delicate skin, the slight dent in her nose that remains from the Landers assault. How could he not care about her? The thought that she might think otherwise hurts him, aches like a boot to the stomach.

            “Things have changed since we were…” she stops, after all these months she still hasn’t defined exactly what they had shared. “I was with somebody else, I thought you… I thought you’d hate me.”

             “I could never hate you.” The words are fast from his mouth, brows curled up with offense. When he speaks next, his voice is calmer, slower. “I don’t… blame you for what happened. I wasn’t ready to give you what you wanted. He was.”

The words are hard coming from his mouth, the truth forming reluctantly from his lips. If anything, he hates himself for driving her away into the hands of another man. For failing to give her what she needed, so little now he looks back on it. All she had wanted was some clarity, for him to act on the feelings he had felt inside. To let the wall around his heart down for her to venture in. Only now as they sit in the car, rain pattering against the window, does he realise how easy that would have been. To just let her love him, and to love her back in return. Hearing those words from Flip’s mouth stills her breath, makes her heart beat ever faster in her chest. The man she is talking to now is not the man she left. The pleading man, who’s empty promises of change had come all too late. The man who claimed love but could provide little more than his late evening visits. No. The man across from her in the car is different. The look behind his eyes when he speaks to her tells her he has learnt from his mistakes, learnt from their separation.

            “I wasn’t the right guy for you. That’s my fault, but he might be—"

            “He wasn’t.” She cuts him off before he can finish.

His whole expression changes at the use of one simple word. He feels his shoulders tighten, hand pausing mid air from where it had been gesturing alongside his words. His lips remain parted, eyes fixated on her, searching her for a sign of falsity.

            “Wasn’t?”

He is not a hopeful man. Not in recent months, not since their split, but he can’t deny her use of past tense sparks a glimmer of hope within him. Makes his mind wander if he’s going to get the chance he needs to prove himself to her.

            “We’re… not seeing each other anymore.” She hesitates on the details, unsure of how much of her alternate love life she wants to reveal. “He didn’t think I was… _wife material_.”

She raises her fingers in mock quotations, making light of what was a painful situation in the presence of her old lover. She tries not to let on how much it hurt her. Dismisses the pain that still plagues her from time to time.

            “His loss.” The words are soft from his mouth as his eyes pass over her face.

He can’t begin fathom how any man could disregard her like that, could lack the care for her he feels inside. Though he’s never thought about it until now, he knows she’s the only woman he would ever consider marriage for. She meets his gaze, finds his eyes delving deep into her, searching out that part of her that still wants him, daring it up to the surface. She’s spent their recent encounters convincing herself not to care for him, to pick out the imperfections in his aged face. To draw on the differences between the Flip she sees now and the Flip she had known before. Not once has she taken a moment to appreciate him. To allow her to want what she wants without shame. As she looks on him now, over the face that still makes her heart flutter and her breath hasten, she embraces her emotions for the first time in months. She reaches across the space between them, places her palm on the top of his hand, her smooth skin resting against the roughness of his knuckles. It’s only a small gesture, the most innocent of skin touches but it still makes her heart hammer against her ribs, echo in her ears like drums.

            “Thank you,” her words are gentle as she rubs her thumb across his, having missed the feel of his skin.

He gulps, opens and closes his mouth a few times before he settles on a simple nod. Just the feel of her hand is enough to steal the words from his mouth. He only has a moment or two more of her before she places her hand on the door handle reluctantly, knowing she needs to put some space between them. It’s still not safe for them to be together.

            “I’ll be in touch. Any developments and you’re the first to know.” He tells her as she prepares to step out into the rain.

She looks into his face once more as the door opens, as if memorising his face for the last time. She offers him a wry smile, knowing it’s not the last time she’ll see him. And more importantly, this isn’t the end of their story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, sorry for late update, busy week! i turned 21 on the 19th of december and have been finishing up this semester at uni so i've been super busy but finally managed to get this chapter in! it's a lot shorter than normal, mainly because i found this scene so difficult to get right. i rewrote it so many times and every time it felt like either he wasn't giving her enough or he was opening up too much and it was out of character, i feel like this is the right amount of balance for them. i'm actually surprised by how final the last part of the chapter sounds but there's more on the way don't worry! they've still got ground to cover and things to discuss but after that we're back on track bitches flip/reader is good to gooOoO
> 
> if i don't post again before christmas (it's very unlikely lol) merry christmas to all my readers if you're celebrating!! love u all and u have made this year so awesome. hope u have an awesome holidays and i'll catch up with you soon x


	16. house rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flip's involvement with the Klan becomes ever more tense as Felix draws him into his home to question his heritage.

The grass is up to Flip’s ankles as he waits outside the house door, heart in his mouth with every second that passes. He’s never been invited around to Felix’s place, and there’s good reason for that. Felix hates him with a passion. Of all the men in the Klan, with their racist tendencies and radial ideologies, he is by far the one that makes Flip’s stomach churn the most. He’s the first to jump to violence, first to spit hatred from foul lips and the last man Flip wants to spend his weekends visiting. Even now, three and a half months deep into the investigation, he still doesn’t regard Flip the same as the other men. Still casts him a wary eye whenever he enters a room, still counters every word that comes from his mouth, still questions whether his blood is true Aryan. And of course, Flip holds his own the best he can. Quips every comment that comes his way, diverts his aggression when things get too heated, tells himself not to act on his instincts and put five bullets in his chest. But this feels different. Felix’s home is his own domain, to do with him as he pleases, treat him as he sees fit, and as his wife rushes to the door to greet him, Flip can barely force a smile to hide his dread.

            “You must be Ron, I’ve heard so much about you!” A short, rotund woman greets him giddily, throwing her arms around him into a tight embrace. “I’m Connie, Felix’s wife. Come in, come in.”

She seems unfazed by his lack of enthusiasm to meet her, ushering him in with a drying cloth in her hand. He’s not sure what he would have expected of Felix’s partner, but the seemingly bubbly brunette in front of him is not what he had in mind. She seems the opposite of him in every way, warm where he is cruel, thick bodied where he is nothing but hatred and bone, donning a bright floral dress when Felix wears nothing but shades of black and grey. He bows his head as he passes though the doorway.

            “They’re right in there,” she gushes, guiding him forward with a wobbly arm.

Her eyes pour over him hungrily. He’s not like the other Klan men. With their stingy hair, gaunt faces, empty brains. No. He is muscled, well-kept and seemingly switched on. Just the height of him against her short frame makes her breathing quicken. Flip offers her a wry smile, follows the sound of Klansmen chatter into the back room. His large boots creak against the floorboards, twenty or so faces turning to look at him as he enters.

            “Ron, glad you could make it.” Walter smiles, handing him a beer instinctively.

Flip takes it, leans against the wall behind him, large back pressed against the ugly patterned wallpaper. He offers a nod to two or three of the men as he sips, avoids Felix’s eyes as he feels them boring into the side of his head.           

            “Now fellas, you know I ain’t one to showboat but I’ve been on the phone to The Organisation’s head office all morning and… I got some big news.” Walter raises his arms wide, soaking up the suspense of the moment.

Flip gulps down the beer in his mouth, lowers the bottle from his lips, feels something in his stomach unsettle.

            “David Duke is coming to your Membership Ceremony on March 15th!”

The room erupts in a cheer, guttural shouts from the men making the small tables shake, glasses vibrating across the surfaces, spilling beer onto the ground. Flip is grateful that in their celebration, they don’t notice the dread that falls across his face, the drop of his stomach that almost makes him loose grip of his beer. _Fuck_ , he thinks. Had Ron heard that over the mic? Did he realise what this meant—for the investigation, for his safety? This assignment was meant to be purely informative, he wasn’t meant to be meeting the Grand Wizard of the Klu Klux Klan. That was never in the blueprint. The next words out of Walter’s mouth are lost to him, like garbled sentences spoken underwater. He zones out, allows his mind to run wild. He needs to get out. Fast. Before he can conjure up an excuse, fake a phone call from a relative or feign a migraine, Felix is standing next to him, dark eyes like the pits of hell focused right on Flip’s face.

            “Come downstairs,” he utters, “I got somethin’ to show ya.”

Flip has no choice but to oblige him. There is no quick comment stored in his mind, and he knows there’s no declining this man in his own home. Against his better judgement, he finds himself following the bony man down the darkened staircase into his basement, leaving the chatter of the crowd behind. He grows more anxious with every descending step. When they reach the bottom, they are surrounded by four dark walls, each decked with a variety of weapons. Shotguns. Handguns. Knives. Each stored by two prongs that, judging by their poor construction, must be the work of Felix himself. His Klan robes hang on the far wall, the dazzling white of the fabric contrastingly sharply against the surrounding armoury. Flip gulps, feels the effect of the beer instantly wear off. He is in hyper alert. Eyes scanning the room for any means of escape, any means of defence. He thinks of Ron on the other end of his mic, wonders whether he’s even receiving the signal from their underground location.

            “Must be about… thirty guns down here.” He comments, trying to offer Ron as much information as he can, if he can even hear him.

It’s a subtle tactic that’s saved his ass more than once. He can only dream that it’ll work again. Felix runs his hands over the barrel of a shotgun, admiring it with more care than Flip has ever seen from him. He removes it from it’s mount, lets it hang in his fingers for a second before he turns on his heel, points it in Flip’s direction. He closes the distance between them, presses the metal opening to the centre of Flip’s chest.

            “Call this one the Jew Killer.” There is pride in Felix’s voice.

Flip’s heart slams against his chest, hammers in his ears so fast it’s like one continuous note, indistinguishable in his fear. Having a gun shoved in his direction is nothing out of the ordinary for him. Drug dealers. Gang members. A particularly pissed off ex-girlfriend. He’s had it all. Back in his officer days, having a gun in his face was a standard Tuesday. Flip’s mouth is a hard-set line, his eyes focused entirely on the man in front of him. The look behind Felix’s eyes is not the same as the other people who have pointed guns at him before. Where there is normally an element of fear, a slight twinge of doubt, there is only determination. A collected manner that can only be gained from his own certainty: he could shoot Flip right there and feel no two ways about it.

            “Well right now I’d say that’s a Remington 1900,” Flip starts, enunciating his words nice and clear for the mic. “…cause it sure as hell ain’t pointed at no Jew.”

Ron stirs in his car, headphone pressed snug to his ear in the confine of the driver’s seat. _Shit_ , he thinks to himself. Flip had always said he would walk himself into a situation like this one day, and that there’d be nothing Ron could do to stop it. His hands fidget on his seatbelt as he waits for the next sounds to come through, ready to spur into action without anything as concrete as a plan.

            “We’ll see about that,” Felix grunts.

The stairs behind them creak, the sound of heavy feet descending as Walter appears behind them, his beady eyes passing over the men as he enters the room. Something about the way he looks at Felix is strong enough that he puts the gun away, propping it back up on it’s uneven hooks.

            “You about done here? There’s a few more points on the agenda…” Walter’s words are a suggestive command.

            “Not yet. Gotta make sure there’s no Jew in him.” Felix closes the distance between him and Flip, stares up into his face and scrutinizes every detail. “If David Duke is coming to Colorado Springs I wanna make sure it’s Jew-free.”

Walter rolls his eyes, pinches his temples between his thumb and middle finger. He and Felix have their fair share of run ins, but his constant scrutiny of the new recruit makes his blood boil. He puts it down to jealousy if anything. Felix can’t handle the thought than the men might like Flip more, might prefer him as their leader.

            “Now you’re just being offensive,” Walter scolds him, leaning in close to the man.

Flip has to hide his scoff. As if after everything they’ve done, all the cross burnings and racial abuse, _this_ is what Walter deems their most offensive moment.

            “My house. My rules.” Felix states, pushing past Walter and opening up a door to another room in the basement.

He pulls a small handgun out of the waistband of his jeans, gestures into the room with it. Flip’s eyes meet Walter’s, a subtle beg for help evident underneath his otherwise calm expression. Walter offers him nothing more than a shrug, knowing more than anything that Felix will get what he wants whether he likes it or not. Flip’s feet drag him toward the back room. As he steps inside, the confine of the space becomes apparent. It’s nothing more than a storage room, barely enough space for him to spread his arms from shelfed wall to shelfed wall. He pulls a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, lights it and takes a long drag to ease the stress. Feels the smoke leaves his lungs as he lets out a long exhale, smoke pouring out of his plump lips. Felix slams and locks the door behind him and turns to face Flip.  

            “And what is this, your Jew den?” He takes another drag.

Watching Felix now, as he hunches over the chair, Flip is struck by his size. He’s half a foot shorter than him, and so gaunt he’s sure if the sun shone right he’d be able to see straight through his skin to his bones. For a moment, a wild, wild moment, Flip thinks about beating him to death. Bare fists against his skin, watch as it split over his sharp bones, as the life behind those vile eyes faded away. It still wouldn’t serve as payment for all the shit he’s caused. For all the pain he’s brought upon anyone who doesn’t walk and talk like he does. But it would be a start.

            “Quit playin’ and open this damn door! This is how we lose recruits asshole!” Walter roars from the outside, his fist hard on the wooden door.

Felix ignores his words, focuses his eyes straight on Flip.

            “You know what I think?” Felix asks in a gravelly tone.

            “Oh, you think?” Flip retorts.

Clearly, from the way he taps his handgun against his skull to emphasise his words, Felix doesn’t think very much. Flip’s comment either goes over his head, or doesn’t bother him, because he continues without faltering, wrinkled lip pulling up over his teeth like a snarling dog as he speaks.

            “I think you knew that nigger bitch from the steakhouse. I seen the way you looked at each other,” he gestures the gun between Flip and the wall.

Just the words from his mouth stop Flip’s heart, wipe the smile right off his face. He can feel the panic from inside rising to the surface. He can hear Walter’s heavy steps on the stairs outside as he returns to the main room, leaves him alone in the basement with the psychopath. For once, he finds himself hoping that Felix continues monologuing. He has no smart comment to hit back with this time. He’s running on E.

            “I think you been lyin’ about a lotta things. You’re gonna take this lie detector test. Right now.”

            “This is some lame bullshit.” Flip points at Felix with his free hand, fingers jutting towards as the smoke puffs out his mouth. “I ain’t no Jew and I don’t know a damn thing about that bitch at the bar.”

Both those statements cut him like a blade to flesh. The denial of his lineage, the refusal of his lover. He can’t bring himself to repeat Felix’s description. That single slur has graced his lips more times that he can count since he’s started this assignment, and every time he hates himself a little more for it. He daren’t associate it with her. Can’t even bring himself to say it with her in mind. He has to practically force the word bitch from his mouth, and once it’s out he feels the weight of it on his shoulders.

            “Let me see your dick,” Felix hisses, waves the gun in his face.

            “ _What?!_ ” Flip chokes, damn near swallows his whole cigarette.

            “You Jews do somethin’ weird with your dick. Circumspection or—”

            “So that’s what this is about,” Flip cracks a smile, knowing he finally has the upper hand. “You wanted to drag me down here so you could see my cock huh? Is that what you want, faggot?”

Ron slaps his hands together in the car, laughs heartily at his partner’s quips. He’s always been a fast one. Were it not for the tension of the situation, the confused anger on Felix’s face would make Flip laugh. His eyebrows pull together as he tries to back himself out of the situation.        

            “I ain’t no faggot!” He screams, finger clenching against the trigger of the gun.

Felix’s face shakes with the anger inside him, Flip can see his face turning visibly red as he stands there, can almost feel the heat radiating off his withered skin. If he wasn’t drunk, he’d have notice the safety catch was still on. Flip doesn’t even flinch as the metal clinks in the dim room, a single lightbulb hanging from the switch. He knows men like Felix. He won’t kill someone without proving his point first. Flip’s voice is like a smug song when he next speaks.

            “That’s what you dragged me down here for? So you could talk about women and see my big, meaty, Jew dick? Is that what this is? I tell you one thing Felix, she wasn’t my type and you ain’t neither. Call off this bullshit. I’ve had enough of your games.”

            “You’re gonna take this fuckin’ test, Kike.”

Flip falls silent. Feels that word work its way under his skin, into his bones, infecting him with its hatred. His second year of high school, he’d got himself suspended for a week for beating up a kid who’d called him the same name. He’d broken his nose, fractured three of his ribs and damaged his confidence for life. His family had been near bankrupt by the medical bills. Two years later, when his brother had joined him at the same school, he’d repeated his offence, fighting off five or six bullies who’d been brave enough to tar his younger sibling with the same slur. He’d never heard the word used against either of them again. Now, when he hears it, it’s the same knee-jerk response. The same instinct to cause violence, his nostrils flare. Ron scrambles in the car, knowing it’s only seconds before things get irreversibly serious. He rolls down the window of his car, draws his handgun and fires three straight shots into the kitchen window. He can see from his position that there’s no one inside, but as the bullets leave his hand and a scream fills the air he can’t help but fret.

            “Connie?!” Felix calls on response, bursts through the door of his den with Flip in tow and bounds up the stairs.

By the time they’ve reached the kitchen, there are already floods of tears from her eyes as the shattered glass and bullets line her kitchen floor. Flip is the first to dart outside, noticing the tire marks against the concrete and smell of burning rubber in the air. Ron’s car is nowhere to be seen.

            “You get a look at him?” Walter calls from behind.

Flip turns, veins still pumping with adrenaline.

            “Bastard got away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hohmygod. i've been wanting to write this chapter for so long. i knew when i started this fic i HAD to include at least two scenes from the film (this scene and the dance scene) and put my own spin on them. this chapter is super close to the film, i even googled the script lol, but i hope it wasn't too boring and didn't feel like just a recap of the film. i remember literally being on the edge of my seat in the cinema when i first saw this scene, i felt like i was holding my breath the entire time! hopefully this has the same effect. it's really important to the plot, especially the mention of david duke, and will open up a whole new load of angst/comfort for flip/reader in the next chapter. 
> 
> as i'm uploading this i've noticed the fic has got to 1,000 reads which is honestly SO amazing and beyond my wildest dreams (that sounds cheesy, but it's true) i'm so pumped you guys actually want to/enjoy sharing this fic with me!! love u x 
> 
> (p.s. the mention of flip saying "big, meaty, jew dick" is so hot to me fhkjsdfksdf i love him)


	17. open up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Felix's basement put things into perspective. Flip finds himself knocking at her back door that night, ready to open up to her like he should have done all those months before.

His knuckles are feather light against her door that evening, mind still heavy from the events of the day. He tries to think of something else to pass the time while he waits, but the only thing he can envision is the last time he was stood on her doorstep. Heart aching, body cold, mind numb. She opens the door just a creek at first, half her beauty peering out from behind the door. Though she knows he’s the only person that would be at her back door at this hour, she is still wary of the reason for his visit. It doesn’t help that she’s half-dressed, settled in for the evening in her night dress and robe.

            “Can I come in?” the words are a plea.

She nods. As he crosses the threshold he’s hit by a wave of memories. Thoughts of her laid up in bed next to him, hands in his hair, lips on his neck. The image of her stepping out of the shower, body wet and in full view. The slight pout on her face when he would leave. The crack in her voice when she had shouted, told him she never wanted nothing more to do with him. He feels like a stranger in the home that had once felt like his own. His eyes pass over all the things that have changed. A new photo of her family at Christmas on the fridge, her brother and mother’s face squished against her own. The cream rug they used to make love on disappeared from the floor. A new set of curtains strung up against the window.

            “Is everything okay?” her hushed words break him from his trance.

She knows Flip well and has for some time. The line of his back, the hunch of his shoulders, the part of his hair that tells her he’s been racking his hands through it all day. He’s hurting. Going through something he’s yet to reveal.

            “It was a… long day with the Klan,” are the only words he can drag from his mouth.

He has barely processed it all. He’d had to sit with them for another few hours after the bullets had come through the window, never finding an appropriate time to leave. It had taken at least forty-five minutes to calm Connie down. He’d done his part, sat down and placed a faux caring hand on her shoulder, told her they were going to catch whatever bastard had done it, despite hoping for the opposite deep inside. Felix had insisted on boarding up the window after, forcing Flip and Walter down to the nearest hardware store to find the right kind of panel, and made them both assist with its assembly. Flip never wanted to be stood that close to Felix with a hammer in hand again. The temptation to bludgeon him into another life had been far too strong. First chance he’d got, he’d taken off, speeded away from the house and driven in circles for at least twenty minutes to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He was at the station within the hour, bursting straight into the office and asking Ron what the hell he was thinking, before he told him a begrudging thank you. He can’t remember the last time those words had come from his lips, to a partner. _Thank you. You saved my life_.

            “Ain’t that what a partner’s for?” Ron had replied, little less than pleased with the gratitude.

He wasn’t wrong. Flip had never found himself in a situation like that before, in a place where he hadn’t been his own best bet, had needed someone else to save his ass. And now, stood here in her home, it felt no different. He needed her now. To save his mind from the awful thoughts that plagued it so often these days.

            “You need coffee.” She concludes, passing into the kitchen without another word.

She gathers the necessary ingredients, flicks the kettle on and turns to face him once more. Just the sight of him in her home again feels foreign, his big body leant against the opposing counter, thumb hooked into the worn brown belt holding his jeans up. She can tell just from the way he stands he feels uncomfortable, doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, how to act in this limbo that they have left themselves in.

            “You can take your coat off you know,” she half-smiles, “I’m not gonna throw you out just yet.”

She’s glad he chuckles back. It’s a hearty chuckle, the kind that makes his shoulders shake and his mouth form into that one-sided grin she’s missed. Her eyes stay pinned to him as he shrugs out of his Sherpa jacket, peels off the corduroy and places it over the back of a kitchen chair. Though she begs them not to, her eyes can’t help but fall to his hips as his shirt lifts up, exposing the thick muscle underneath, lined with the darkest hair she’s ever seen in a dense trail that disappears underneath his waistband. By the time he’s turned to look at her, her eyes are on the ground, telling herself to forget what she has just seen. Push it aside. She’s grateful for the whistle of the kettle, practically jumping to pour both their drinks. She doesn’t need to ask how he likes it, she already knows. Sometimes, in the old days, he would ask for a coffee when he arrived at hers. He would say it was to warm him up. After all, the majority of their relation had been spent over winter. It wasn’t completely implausible. He could only hope she’d never seen through his poor attempt at saving his dignity. Truth was, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. Most nights he was so tired out from the station work he couldn’t even dream of a half-decent performance without a little caffeine in his system. Not that she minded. The coffees gave them time to talk. Made his visits feel a little less to the point. At least for a while anyway.

            “Come, sit down.” She encourages, ushering him toward the living room once she’s handed him his drink. “All this standing’s making me nervous.”

Though she can’t see his face as he follows her to the couch, she knows he is smiling. He soaks up every opportunity she gives him to pass a chuckle, stretch his lips into a smile. The day has given him such little reason to feel happiness, so he dwells in the moments he can gain from her. As she sits, cross-legged on the couch, steam from her coffee rising up over her features, he’s truly blown away by her. Her brown eyes are the kindest he’s ever known. They see straight into him, know him for everything he is, has been and will be, and they accept him. They allow him to share her home, take up her time, and once, they had allowed him the privilege of her touch. The thought of her skin springs to mind as he takes in her evening attire, a wine-coloured, satin night dress that hangs snug to her shape. There’s a loose dressing gown strung over her shoulders, he notices she doesn’t try to cover herself with it. Now is not the time for him to feel the way he does about her, for his eyes to fall to her breasts, watch their shape poke against the satin, the point of her nipple vivid against the fabric.

            She senses his wistful eyes on her, tries to clear her throat. “So, you wanna tell me what happened?”

If it were anyone else, she’d add a hasty ‘ _you don’t have to if you don’t want to_ ’ on the end but something about his poture makes her think he needs to tell someone. And her own curiosity, part driven by fear, won’t allow him to keep it from her. He’s dragged back to the events of the day, pulled from the joy of her company as he remembers why he’s here in the first place.

            “David Duke is coming to Colorado Springs.”

Her breath holds in her lungs, daren’t come out as she processes the information presented to her. Before, she had almost got lost in his eyes, stared so deep into them she could forget where they were. His words are a cold slap in the face.

            “When? Why?” Her words are flat.

            He rubs his hand across his forehead. “March 15th, for my initiation.”

Her hands shift around her mug, the heat of her drink almost too much against her palms. She holds the handle, places it down on the table with an audible _thud_. She turns to her only defence: sarcasm.

            “Well, maybe if you’re lucky he’ll sign your hood.”

He doesn’t chuckle that time. Instead he watches her with a stern eye, unsure whether he should take offence to her comment.

            “I didn’t know you were going to be officially initiated.” He can feel the upset in her tone.

            “Neither did I,” he sighs.

She watches him as he takes a long sip of his coffee, allows the warmth to course down through his insides and settle in the pit of his stomach.

            “Where’s the end point in all of this? Aren’t you just dragging yourself into something you can’t control?”

He thinks about her question. In truth, he didn’t think he would still even be thinking about the KKK four months down the line. Ron and the Sergeant had made it seem like a small investigation. ‘Two weeks tops,’ Ron had told him right at the start. That had morphed into four, then six… They were always on the cusp of a big bust, it seemed. Feeding Flip the right words to have him back with them only moments after he said he’d had enough. He was a fool for it, and he knew it. But what would be the point in quitting now? Without a single man behind bars, it would be a waste of his time. And besides, they knew his face now. If he were to just leave, he was sure they’d come looking for him.

            “It feels that way sometimes,” the words are distant, his eyes staring a hole into a blank spot on her wall. “One guy almost killed me today.”

Her eyes bulge in her head. This sort of thing should not shock her anymore, but the casual nature of the statement makes her heart leap. What has he been through that the admittance of his near-murder doesn’t even make him flinch?

            “What… happened?” as she asks the question she realises she’s not sure she wants to know the answer.

Then again, knowing Flip there’s every chance she won’t get the answer. He has always shied away from her questions, her attempts to delve into his mind, his past. Months down the line and she’s still not sure he’ll ever let her see the real him.

            “There’s a guy in the Klan, Felix, he… he’s hated me from the beginning. He knows I’m…” his slow words tail off as he fights to brings the next words out of his lips.

 _He knows I’m Jewish_. A truth he hasn’t admitted in years. He had spent his journey into adulthood trying to hide the remains of his identity, fighting off any accusation with more than just his words. He had learnt very early on that there were people who would hate him for what he was. He had watched his elders repeatedly rebuild his childhood temple, break in after break in. He had seen his mother hide her necklace in public, tuck the star underneath her clothes whenever they left the house. He had felt the heat of the glares on his neck when they had learnt about the Second World War in class. He had never understood why his people were worth hating, why he was meant to feel shame about something he was born into, something he hadn’t been involved with in years. His mother had been his only link to Judaism, and he had buried them both decades ago. Now, when he thought of his stance with religion, it was the denial that brought him shame. He couldn’t imagine his mother’s disappointment if she knew he couldn’t even bring himself to say the words out loud. It’s that feeling that he holds onto as he sits there, eyes screwed shut as if the admittance requires a physical exertion.

            “I’m Jewish. He knows I’m Jewish.” The breathy words release him from his torment, unwrap like chains around his lungs as he exhales.

His head hangs low, shoulders heaving as if he’d run a marathon, fingers tight around his mug. The anguish of his words hangs in the space between them. The pieces finally click into place for her. The star pendant necklace that had sat on the chest next to his bed. His empathy when it came to her own experiences of racism at the station. He too had his own battles with prejudice. She feels the weight of his pain, knows what it is like to have colleagues that would see him dead for something he couldn’t control. Though unlike her, he could shield himself from the hate, pass as an average white man with no real religious leanings. She could do nothing to change her skin, to hide from the oppression that awaited her.

            “He tried to get me to do a lie detector test, had a gun to my head. Said he’d shoot if I didn’t admit it.” Flip murmurs, as if to himself.

The thought of him in that position is enough to make her bottom lip quiver. He could have been killed today, bloodied body splayed out in the basement of Felix’s home and she would have been none the wiser. Ron would have had to listen to his partner being shot over the mic, listened to his final breaths as he bled out.

            “I’m sorry Flip… God, I’m so so sorry.”

She stretches her hand across the gap between them and cups his cheek, skin tender against his beard, thumb caressing over his cheekbones. He leans into her touch, presses his face into her outstretched palm, feels the care radiating out of her skin. She pulls him closer to her, lets him rest his head on her shoulder, face buried in her neck as she massages her fingers over the back of his neck. She needs to hold him, to let him know that he’s not alone, that against all odds he has her. Just the sensation of her skin against his eases him as he allows himself to melt into her, breathe in her faint scent.

            “I don’t know where I’d be without you,” the words come straight from his heart, the place he has kept her memory for all these months.

Though the muffled words pull on every heart string she has, make her ache for the love he never got to give her. For all the things they could have been but never were. He had told himself for months that if there was ever a chance for him to make things up to her, for him to let her know how he really felt, he would seize it with both hands. He lifts his head, lets her hand fall down his back as he takes in her beauty, just inches from her face. Her eyes flick to his lips, his eyes, and back to his lips. He can see the dilemma written all over her face, her indecision fighting with her want. The battle rages in her mind, telling herself no, they shouldn’t end up back here. They’re going in circles. Nothing has changed. If anything, it’s _worse_. But she can’t deny the feeling in her gut. She’s never felt this way about anyone, why deny herself the one man she wants? She edges forward hesitantly, waiting in front of his lips to take the final plunge. The first touch of his lips to hers is nothing more than a graze, a ghosting of mouth against mouth. Her closed lips are so gentle he wonders whether they’re even there. Its as if they are kissing for the first time, rediscovering everything once so familiar. She rests her forehead on his, lets out a long breath as their lips part. He’s sure she’s going to pull back when she presses against him again, confidence on her side this time. Her lips slip between his own, hold against his mouth as he leans into her, feels his nose graze her cheek. A gentle moan escapes her as he opens his mouth, the tip of his tongue meeting her lips just for a second. Her lips part, their tongues reuniting in the orange light of the living room. His taste comes back to her, reminds her of everything she had yearned for. She surrenders to the want as she explores his mouth, lets her lips do what her mind has wanted for so long. His hand comes to cup her face, thumb rested on her cheek while his fingers encircle her neck, bring him ever closer to her. He kisses her with the force of a man who knows what he has lost and wants it back desperately. Her lips press into him at every available angle, barely leaving him for air as she lifts herself onto his lap, arches her body against him on the couch. His hand cups her face, prises her away from him to search her expression. In the second that their eyes meet, he knows she’s thinking the same thing. He lifts her effortlessly, legs wrapped around his waist as he carries her. Feather light kisses grace her lips as he lowers her onto the bed, robe spread around her body like wings. The sight of her makes his heart swell.

            This time is different for him.

He is not fuelled by the same blind want as before, the intense need to satisfy something physical and nothing more. As he leans over her, feels her fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, he’s overcome with feelings for her, wants nothing more to make love to the woman he has spent his days dreaming of. He stills her fingers as they tug at his jeans, presses her wrists into the sheets as his lips trace her jaw, her neck, the line of her collarbones. He slides her out of her nightdress easily, lets a breathy moan escape his mouth as he is reacquainted with the sight of her naked form. She’s perfect. Real-life proof of heaven lying right in front of him. She watches his expression as his eyes linger over every aspect of her. Before where there had been hunger, there is awe. Just a glimpse at his eyes let her know how he feels, how much she means to him. She beckons him toward her, fingers loose on the back of his neck as strands of his hair tickle her ribs, mouth working on her breast. His tongue traces the shape of her right nipple while his hand massages her left. His touch is feather light, enough to send shivers down her spine as he kisses a trail down her stomach, lips venturing down to her most intimate part. He eases her legs apart, gentle hands resting on the backs of her knees as his mouth patters across the inside of her thighs, makes her twitch with the anticipation. She can do nothing but watch as the first flick of his tongue brushes against her sweet skin, folds slick with her need. Whimpers leave her mouth as his tongue traces the shape of her, venturing inside. Her brows crumple above her eyes while she watches him, eyes closed with the concentration, bearded mouth lost between her legs, hair ticking the inside of her thighs. He takes his time to taste her, to let his mouth enter and explore her at every available angle. He reaches a hand up to cup her breast as she rocks against him, feels the hum of his moans against her flesh. The sensation inside her stomach surges as she feels his fingers slip into her, gently massaging while his mouth works his way back up her body, settles on her neck. He nips at the skin, traces lines along her jaw with his tongue, moans against her throat as he grinds her hip against his hand.

            “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you,” he whispers against her collarbone.

It’s true. He had spent his days coming to terms with the fact he might never be with her again, that she would want nothing more to do with him and there would be nothing he could do but agree. To feel her against him again, have her want him as he does her, _care_ for him as he does her, fulfils him in ways he can’t verbalise. She presses her mouth against him, tastes herself on his tongue as they kiss, a thousand words shared between their lips. Their eyes meet as he pulls away, each knowing they’re on a route for something more serious than they could have ever imagined. He sheds himself of his vest, exposes his robust front to her once more. Her eyes explore him as she waits, open legged, for him to finish undressing. His hands are practically shaking on his belt, fumbling over his buttons with the nerves of the moment. It’s as if he were doing this for the first time. He’s never lain with a woman he’s loved before, never felt the need for another person so wholly in his being. She leans up to meet him, lets her lips pass across his abs while her hand begins to massage him, wraps around the thickness of his flesh. Hand on her shoulder as she looks up at him, he watches her fingers stroke him gently. He can feel his already pulsing need increasing with every touch of her skin, the sensation of her lips around his head bringing out a guttural moan. Her tongue is hot against his shaft, swirls around the shape of him, courses over the tip. He cups her head as she moves, feels the kink of her hair in his fingers while she pleasures him. When his moans reach a peak, she leans back, holds his hand in hers as she pulls him to lie with her. His body dwarfs her, a muscled arm propping himself up on either side of her body as she wraps her leg around his hip. Dark hair falls over his face as he looks upon himself, brushes the tip against her opening. A whimper escapes her lips as he enters her, fills her body with his form. She clutches at his back as she adjusts once more to his size, fingers pressed against his skin as the pleasure mounts inside her, builds with every motion of his hips. His hands find hers, fingers interlocking as his lips meet her mouth, every inch of his body in contact with her, giving her everything he can. She is overcome with pleasure, sensations erupting in every part of her body. Faint moans flee her lips as they graze against his ear, his head buried in her neck as the intensity of her insides draws him closer to his orgasm. His deep, breathy moans are mostly just noise, but one sentence does escape his lips as he lifts his body to gaze at her, take in the radiance of her features as he indulges her.

            “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this might be my favourite chapter in the fic, really and truly. i've been thinking about writing this scene ever since they first split up and i'm so happy with the way it's gone. this is the first time we've really seen flip open up and be honest with her about quite a few things and i just, ugh. especially the intimate scenes with both of them, they're not just having sex anymore they're making love, and he told her he loved her just, wow. i love him in this chapter so much. hope you enjoyed this as much as i did :)


	18. undercover, under covers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of empty beds and lonely mornings, Flip finally stays the night and tells her what she really means to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys. i just want to start with a disclaimer and say i'm so sorry that this chapter has taken so long to be written and posted. i've been fighting what feels like a losing battle with my depression recently, and the pressure of studying for my final year at university has been really getting to me. i've been working so hard non-stop and burning myself out so much that i rarely have the energy to even open the word document for this fic, never mind write it. i wanted to make sure that this chapter covered a few key points, and was good enough that it was worth the wait. even as i'm posting this i still don't know if that's true, but i hope you can enjoy it. sorry for starting on such a downer x

That night she hears his words echo back to her in a dream. _I love you_. Visions of his hand taking hers, his soft lips smoothing against her forehead, her body pressed against his as they sway to the faint tune of music, head tucked under his chin. The Flip of her dreams is unconstrained by their real-life drama. He is unafraid to love her, undaunted by the consequences of their relation. In her dreams, his presence frees her.

            The real world was not so simple.

Sunlight pours into her room, glows against her closed eyes until she rouses from her slumber. She tries to stretch away her tiredness, extends her toes so far they peak out of the bottom of her duvet. It takes her a moment to notice the weight across her torso, the same muscled arm from her dream hangs over her body, fingers loosely grasping below her breast. Her eyebrows crinkle as she watches Flip’s arm rise and fall with each of her breaths.

            He _never_ stays the night.

He doesn’t dare to see her bed head or morning mouth. She rolls underneath his outstretched limb, feels the weight of his arm like cement as she turns, faces so close now that she can feel the warmth of his breath. She’s never seen him so _rested_ , never seen his features free of frustration or pleasure. The bags under his eyes are all but gone, the crease of concern that often hangs in his brow nowhere to be seen. His breaths are heavy through plump lips, exhales strong enough to blow strands of her hair out of her face. She stares at the sleeping giant in front of her, tries to wrap her head around the situation. Flip Zimmerman, _the_ Flip Zimmerman, had told her he loved her last night. Even thinking those words sounded absurd. This was the same man who had taken two weeks to call her anything other than “rookie”, the same man who had told her never to tell anyone he had taken care of her that night after Landers’ attack, the same man who would get up and dressed the moment she dared to ask him a question that didn’t involve sex or work. _Maybe he didn’t mean it_ , she thinks, _maybe it just slipped out_. She wouldn’t put it past him. There had been more than a few times he’d been loving her just right and she’d thought about letting those same words tumble out of her mouth. But no, this was different. _He_ had been different. He had caressed her with the aurora of a changed man. There had been no hair pulling, no thrusting so rough she would struggle to walk the next morning, no reddened spank marks on her skin. He hadn’t even hit her with his favourite line, “ _you’re my little slut_.” Hell, he barely said anything _at all_ , restricted himself to moans and heavy breaths when his lips weren’t pressed against her own. _Can you make love and not be in love?_ She toyed with the question, searching for answers among his sleeping features, surprised when the corners of his mouth began to twitch, fixing into a yawn as his brown eyes squinted open. Her stomach is suddenly alive with butterflies, terrified he might wake and regret his decision. Through heavy lids, his eyes fall on her, a smile creeping across his lips as her image focuses into shape. Her stomach quells as she sees the admiration of his gaze. He feels as if he’s seeing her for the first time, imprinting her features into his mind. Even now, with her face half obscured by the plump of her pillow, she is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Her features couldn’t be arranged more perfectly, couldn’t form a face as captivating as this one. He could spend the rest of his life looking at her and still find a new way to appreciate her beauty every day. It feels absurd he had once convinced himself he didn’t want this; to be laid up next to a beautiful woman who wanted nothing more than for him to give himself to her. As he reaches up to touch her face, thumb tracing a ling across her cheekbone, he knows he’ll do anything to be with her. 

            “Good morning,” he purrs, leaning across the distance between them to place a wet kiss against her mouth.

He can feel her lips forming into a smile underneath him, the feel of her hands snaking around his neck. She leans into his mouth, overcome with how perfect the situation feels. He nuzzles into the side of her face, buries his lips in her neck while she laughs, playfully bats him away. He gives in, props himself up on his palm as looks down on her face, tucking stray strands of her hair behind her ear.

            “You know you’re even more beautiful in the morning,” his deep voice rasps in the still air as he admires her. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

His words shock her, wipe the smile clean off her face. She had spent so many nights watching him leave, so many mornings waking up alone that she hadn’t even entertained the possibility of him ever staying the night. For his body to find a home in the bed that he knew so well. Just the sight of him now, duvet hung loosely over his abs, fingers caressing her skin, has her in awe. She presses her cheek into his palm, years for the feel of his skin against her own. She tries to root herself in that moment, focus on nothing else but the feel of him against her, but the question in her mind won’t be silenced. Before she can stop herself, it’s tumbling from her mouth.

            “Why… did it take you so long?”

Part of her feels guilty as the words leave her mouth, but she knows it needs to be done. They have been in between states for so long, in a limbo she no longer has the energy for. They’ve been through too much to keep things this way: it’s all or nothing now. Flip’s eyes drop from hers for the first time, his nose twitching as he prepares the words in his mind.

            “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I never wanted to feel that again. I think I thought… if I didn’t let myself get attached… I could save myself the pain.” He pauses, meets her eyes again. “I was wrong.”

Loss was a feeling he knew well, he had spent half his life in its company. Thought himself a man adjusted to it’s trappings but she had proved him wrong. Losing her wasn’t the same as grief. Accepting that he would never see someone again had almost been easier, there was no temptation. No stray thought that he might bump into them once again, cross eyes at work. No, there was a different sting in knowing she was alive and well, simply without him. That he had driven her to make herself scarce, left him to feel the familiar guise of loneliness seep deep into his bones.

            “My mom passed when I was twelve and it tore my whole family apart. My father threw out everything that reminded him of her, her candles… her clothes… He wouldn’t even let us go to temple. He said we weren’t Jewish anymore. Not now she was gone.” He pauses for a moment, and she can tell just from a glimpse of his eyes that his mind is not in that moment with her. “We weren’t as close after that. It was just me and my brother…”

            “I’m so sorry Flip,” she clutches his hand, pulls it close to her chest, “we don’t have to talk about it.”

            “No.” His voice is firm for the first time, he meets her eyes. “I want you to know.”

She nods. Stays quiet. Keeps his fingers encased in her palm.

            “My brother was called Isaac, he was three years younger. He wasn’t anything like me...  all knees and elbows, real skinny kid. But he was the brains of the family. Top of all his classes, could’a gone to any college he wanted.”

She notices the way his face lights up when he talks about him, a twinge in the corner of his mouth that reeks of mischief. Flip’s older brother role slips into her mind with ease. She images him as the protective type, one that wrestles way too hard but wouldn’t let anyone else lay a finger on his family. The type to tease about girls and school, always with good intentions even if they were a little lost. Though a picture of Isaac is hard for her to summon. Flip was so huge, she’d assumed by default that anyone related to him would have the same stocky build. A scrawnier, smarter version of Flip seems alien to her.

            “I joined the military after high school, I had nothin’ else goin’ for me. I’d been serving for three years when he joined. I tried to convince him out of it but he wouldn’t listen. He was stubborn, I’ll give him that.” He pauses, and she sees the expression on his face shift to something more sinister. “I got medically discharged after I broke my sternum… I had to leave him out there. Alone.”

His breaths begin to grow a little heavier, hid body completely still apart from the rise and fall of his barrel chest.

            “He said he’d write to me every week… by the time his first letter got delivered, he’d been shot.” The words are flat.

He’s never told anyone about his past, and as his eyes come up to meet hers, part of him is afraid. Of what she might say, what she might think. Whether she’ll blame him the same as his father. But the eyes that stare back at him are loving, accepting. Her hand caresses across his collarbones, communicating what her mouth cannot. She feels her eyes brim with tears but she withholds them, tries to stay strong for his sake. She wishes that she could soothe his pain, remove it from his memory and heal him instead. He holds her hand, stills her palm against his skin.

            “After that I told myself if I was going to be alone, it was going to be my choice.” His words this time are softer, waver a little in the middle. He clears his throat. “And I was ready for that until I met you.”

He had known for a long time that she was special. That there was going to be, and would always be, something more between them. He remembered when Chief Bridges had first pitched the idea of a woman in the records room; the hungry comments that followed from his colleagues, the excitement in the office the day of her first shift. The thought of it made him sick. Even before he had known her, he had felt for her.

            From the moment he’d first seen her she’d caught his attention.

He still remembered the curls of her hair to this day, the faint hint of her perfume in the records room. The sound of her voice when she’d addressed him, so sharp but yet so sweet. It seemed absurd, for a woman so beautiful to be in a place like that. Though she wasn’t without her own grit, and he liked that about her. _My_ was she pretty, but that wasn’t all there was to her. She had eyes that saw straight through him, past the outward bravado and into what was lurking underneath. A tongue so sharp he had to take a moment to work out how to respond. She was his worst nightmare: a gorgeous, smart woman that paid him no mind. In his glory days, he’d have a new girl perched on his desk every other week, mewling his name like a cat in heat. He could pick up women anywhere. In a bar, on a job, grocery shopping. He was used to them wanting him, fawning over his every move. It was almost boring. He was the idol of the station. The ultimate bachelor. Yet, the first time he’d met her, she hadn’t even looked twice at him. In fact, he was convinced she hated him. Every word from her mouth was sharp, her jaw in a constant clench. Even when he’d complimented her, she’d looked frustrated about it. He’d questioned himself on the walk back to his desk: was he losing his charm, or was he simply just not her type? She’d given him a run for his money, made him want to sprint right back. He’d been unable to get her out of his mind ever since, bending over backwards to try and get in her good books, falling for her somewhere along the line.

            It was hard to pinpoint exactly where love had come into it.

He knew he had loved her when he had seen her with Miles, watched as her eyes fell over another man with an expression that he had thought saved only for him. He had known he loved her when she had cast him out of her home, told him she wished to be with him no longer. He had felt the words sit on the back of his tongue, perched comfortably while he willed them to emerge from his mouth with all his might. Repeated them over and over in his mind as he had walked home. Had he loved her the first time they had lain together? When he had seen her radiant expanse of skin for the first time, exposed for him and only him? He had felt every ounce of her passion, drank it in like he might die at any moment. Even then, as their bodies entwined, wrapped around each other for the first of so many times, he had known she was unlike any other woman he had been with. Perhaps he had loved her when he had found her on the parking lot, heart full with panic as he saw to her nursing. As he had lain her down in his bed, settling for the lumpy sofa that night, only to check on her every hour out of sheer fear she might deteriorate. Perhaps, he had loved her, in his own way, the entire time, but never been man enough to show it to her.

            “You haven’t left my mind since the day I first laid eyes on you,” he’s almost choked up as he says the words. “I meant what I said last night, and I’ll do whatever it takes to be with you.”

Even now, hours after the matter, the memory of his words still make her mind whir. Last night his hand had knotted into hers, hot breath on her face as his lips left hers for only a moment to admit he loved her. She’d been too lost in the moment to say anything back, almost grateful when his lips met hers again to save her the embarrassment of not mirroring his words. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel the same, in fact she’d felt that way about him for some time, but last night wasn’t the right time for her to say it. It still wasn’t now. There were things they needed to discuss, things she needed to know, before she laid her feelings out on the table.

            “You know what you need to do,” she sits up and meets his eye level, tugs the sheet up with her to cover her chest. “You just won’t do it.”

She sees the pain flash across his face, eyebrows crinkling above sad eyes. He swipes a hand back through his hair, removes some of the long locks from his face as he sighs. She can see his huge chest rise and fall, his teeth dig into his lip with indecision in the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t allow herself to look at him.  She hates that she’s being like this. That the morning she’s waited so long for has devolved into the same discussion yet again. The thought of having this ripped away from her again makes her want to stomp her feet like a child until she gets what she wants. What she deserves. Before, his withheld feelings had been the barrier. Now, his feelings were pouring out like a flood, but the investigation had stopped him from acting on it. She tries to shove away from his grasp as he cups her cheek, stares straight into her eyes. But as her gaze falls over her favourite birth marks on his face, she can’t help but feel warmth towards him, to reluctantly lean into his hand.

            “I will. It’s just not the right time.” He knows he’s igniting a flame as he says the words. “If I leave now, we can’t charge them with anything. And they’ll be free to keep doin’ exactly what they’re doin’. They’re planning something for when Duke arrives. As soon as we figure out what it is, we’ll arrest them and it’ll be over. And we can have it like this all the time. Every day. I promise. It’s just two more weeks. After that it’s all us.”

He rubs her hand, presses his lips to her forehead, moustache tickling against her skin.

            “Fine,” she spits, accepting her fate reluctantly. “But when it’s over I want to be treated real nice. No more half-assed Flip. I want you like this all the time.”

He chuckles, that mischievous sound that brings a smirk to her face whether she likes it or not. He nods, hand still cupping her cheek, rubbing against her skin.

            “Yes ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for being so patient with me guys, this fic means the world to me, and so do each of you who read, comment and kudos all the time. please don't think i'm forgetting about this fic, it's just real life getting in the way for a bit. i can't promise i'll be any better with getting the next chapter up soon, but i will try my hardest. love you guys x


	19. actions speak louder than words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days away from each other make both the lovers realise how much they mean to each other, and what they're willing to do to determine their place in each other's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... it's been a while. in the time i've taken away from this fic my mental and physical health has been some of the worst it's ever been due to the stress of my university studies. it's been a very difficult couple of months for me, but as i'm typing this now i can happily say i've been finished with my undergraduate geography degree for two weeks! i'm currently on a family holiday, and taking some well-deserved time out to bring you this chapter that i've wanted to for so so long, and i know you all deserve. i'm getting back into the swing of this fic now, and am ready to finally draw it to a close over the next few weeks. thanks for sticking with me and hope you enjoy x

It’s barely five days before he sees her again. She hasn’t left his mind. Not that she ever did, but things are different now his feelings are unconstrained, out in the open. There is no guilt when she comes to mind, when his thoughts linger on the shape of her smile, the smell of her shampoo. He doesn’t even attempt to quell the daydreams anymore, he indulges them. Allows himself to think of her whenever he has a moment to himself. In the shower. On the drive to Felix’s. At night right before he settles to bed. He thinks of her words, her wisdom, how she might caress his face were she with him. And he needs her, yearns for her like never before. The morning spent curled up in her sheets already feels like years ago. This afternoon he’s practically marching to the records room, barrelling straight into the station once he’s sure he’s got all the details. He’s almost breathless by the time he opens the door, the excitement of seeing her filling his lungs. She turns on her heel, face turning from shock to amusement as she raises a single eyebrow and flashes him a knowing smirk. He wishes he could bottle that moment. The change in expression that’s saved only for him.

            “Hey,” it’s the best he can come up with, words suddenly at a loss to him.

He’s had something of a speech prepared for days, but the moment he sees her there it’s out the window. Just the lift of her brow, the slight twinge of her lips, reaps all the confidence from him. He wonders if there’ll ever be a day she doesn’t make him speechless.

            “Afternoon.” She slides her paperwork to the side, all interest seemingly lost now he’s in the room. “Thought you didn’t come ‘round the station much these days?”

            “I came to offer you something,” he scratches the back of his head, ruffling his shoulder long hair, as he steps towards the desk.

Both her eyebrows raise above her blinking eyes, unsure what to make of his cryptic statement. She doesn’t question him, trusting him enough to know that whatever it is he’s offering. Flip lays his palms flat out on the desk between them, stares at his outstretched fingers as he eyes the wood beneath them as he takes a final moment to catch his breath. When his brown eyes flick up to meet hers, there’s a hopeful honesty in them.

            “The last time I saw you, you said you wanted to be treated real nice, and it got me thinkin’. This station isn’t the best place for you… and I know you’re a real smart girl, and you got your college degree and all that…” His voice is level as he locks eyes with her, but she can tell from the twitch of his brow that he’s nervous. “So I did some asking around at the Gazette and… I think they might have an opening for you. They want a woman columnist to attract more female readers.”

A wide smile breaks across her face, a scoff of surprise coming from her lips as she processes his words.

            “What, are you serious? You can’t be serious right?” She clasps her hands over her mouth, covers up her wide smile.

He can’t help but break into his own grin as he watches her joy. He finds himself pulled into a tight-armed hug as her hands clasp around his neck, lips bombarding the side of his face with aggressively grateful kisses. He soaks up the affection, laughs into her shoulder as she begins to pull away, hands still on either side of her face as she takes a suddenly more serious tone.

            “What the _hell_ did you do to swing that?”

            “I made a few calls…” he reveals modestly.

In truth, the fact that he could find her an ideal job in a mere few days when she’d been looking since she left college should annoy her, but as she looks into her favourite eyes, annoyance is far from her. The sheer knowledge she can leave the records room behind and dive head first into an industry she’s always dreamt of is enough to keep any negative emotion out of her mind. Though she’s come to feel at home at the station in recent months, she knows its not the permanent place for her. It was only a matter of time before things got rough again, and there was another Landers lookalike balling in through the station doors every morning. Admittedly, she was sure some of the officers that were still left at the station felt the same way as their old colleague, but at least they weren’t overt about it. She could only hope those at the Gazette would be half as placid.

            “You should be able to start by the end of the month, you know… if you want it.”

Her fingers find their way into his hair as she pulls him into a kiss, bodies stretched over the desk of the records room, ribs pressed against the unforgiving wood. He leans into her warmth; mouth open as her tongue traces circles around him. An involuntary moan escapes him as he leans away, presses her forehead to his own.

            “Thank you,” the words are soft from her mouth, lips brushing against his own as she speaks them.

            “I wanna do right by you, any way I can.” Flip speaks the words into her skin, the feel of her fingertips still caressing his scalp.

 _And I will_ , he tells himself, _whatever it takes_.

 

* * *

 

As her knuckles knock against the cool wood of her mother’s front door, she’s no closer to calming her nerves. For months, she had wanted to come clean. To reveal her double life. She deserved to know about the true atrocities of her daughter’s job, the CSPD’s involvement with the Klu Klux Klan and the potential danger both she and the rest of the church congregation had been placed in. And worst of all, she deserved to know about the man at the centre of it all. The orchestrator of this damage. The man who made her daughter’s heart flutter, the man she loved. She could only imagine the outburst that would follow her confession. The outrage. The shame. She had dated her fair share of questionable men, but few ever had the misfortune of meeting her mother. Most were lucky enough to only be described to her, though that didn’t stop her disapproval. Even Miles, who had seemed so close to their family, had received a thorough dressing down from the confines of her mother’s living room. If he, a man who had seemed so perfect in the eyes of her mother, had been unable to escape her sharp tongue, what chance did Flip stand? The weight of the anticipation lay on her shoulders, the entanglement of lies and half-truths paralysing her on the doorstep. When the door opened, she could only just force a smile through the panic.

            “It’s so good to see you.” The warmth of her mother’s greeting is enough to temporarily ease her nerves.

She leans into the older woman’s embrace, feels the tightness of her arms around her, soaks in every moment of it. Though she visits every week, the soothing nature of her touch never wears off. Each time she leans in, it’s as if she’s a child. There’s a hot bowl of soup on the table between within minutes, steam rising up around her features as her fingers twitch around the spoon handle.

            “You pokin’ that soup around like it’s gonna hurt you. What’s on your mind sweetheart?” Her mother asks.

She passes a small scoff at the comment, thinks about lying. _The soup’s too hot ma, I can’t finish it_. But she knows it won’t work, hot food had never stopped her before. She’d spent half her childhood with a burnt tongue, never patient enough for what was in front of her to cool before she forked it down. She knows the truth has to come out, there’s no more time for blissful ignorance.

            “I met a man, Ma…” she pauses, finally lets the spoon settle in the soup. “I love him.”

The brevity of her words doesn’t even begin to summarise the situation. The long days spent waiting for his company in the records room, the even longer nights spent dreaming of him. The ecstasy of his touch once he had given it to her. Pain that wouldn’t leave her chest throughout their parting. The honesty of his reformed self, never too shy to outpour his affection unto her. Still, the thought of him brings a twitch to the corner of her mouth, sends her into a mild daydream she has to snap herself out of. The thought of his hair through her fingers, the smooth baritone of his voice, the smell left behind in his clothes. Though the details are held back on her tongue, they beg to burst out from her, to release her from the chains of secrecy.

            “And does he love you?” Her mother sips the soup left on her spoon, speaking between mouthfuls.

Had this conversation happened over a week ago, she might not have known the answer to that question. There had always been a part of her that had known his feelings for her ran deep. It was obvious in the way he talked to her, the way he looked at her, the way his fingers would grace her skin. But the conformation of feelings was only a recent thing, and so she finds herself nodding her head shyly, still unsure whether she can confidently confess the origin of love to her mother.

            “Then that ain’t nothin’ to worry about honey,” her voice breaks a higher pitch as she lets down her spoon, a light clang filling the air as it collides with the bowl. “Gettin’ them to love you back is half the damn struggle.”

The words jerk a huff of amusement from her, but her features soon fall back into their previous stoic arrangement. Her mother is quick to notice the change, and her eyes pass over her daughter for a long time before they reach a knowing conclusion.

            “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Masked behind her calm statement is an order: _reveal whatever it is you’re hiding_. It’s a tactic she knows well from her younger years. Only on a rare occasion would her mother ever shout, in fact, in the instances that she did, she knew she could never be in that much trouble. It was these times, when she was quiet, patient, that she knew the real danger was imminent. She takes a deep breath, allows her eyes to close for just a moment before her mouth opens, knowing the next words have the potential to break their relationship.

            “He’s a man from the station… a detective. His name’s Phillip, he’s a good Jewish man."

The formality of his name feels weird on her tongue. Her mother had never been hot on nicknames, and if she was going to make this even the slightest bit easier, she was going to have to pull out every trick she had. Even adding the Jewish emphasis felt strange, but it was the only way she could think to confirm the obvious: _he was a white man_. Her mother is silent for a long time, a penetrative state focused on her daughter, elbows rested on the table and hands clasped together against the tablecloth. Every second she’s quiet is a measure of her increasing anger. When her words finally fill the air, it’s almost a relief, regardless of the upset they cause.

            “You mean to tell me after all those years of watching the harm those men have caused in our community—in this family—you think one could not only be capable of being a good man, but of loving someone _your_ skin tone?” Her words are quiet, but the shame within them speaks volumes.

            She gulps, powers through the stare aimed her way. “I know they ain’t all good, and I don’t think for a second that they are but this man… he’s been real good to me Ma. He was the only one who cared when I was being harassed, and he arrested the man who hurt me himself. He’s the only reason the job is even half tolerable. He’s even found me a new job Ma, a writing job, at the Gazette. I finally got one, because of him.”

Even as she speaks the words, she knows they are not working. Can almost feel the argument slipping through her fingers. Mentioning the new job is her last attempt at winning things back, her mother had spent years nagging her to find a writing job, claiming she hadn’t spent all that money and studied all those hours for nothing. But in the moment, the mention of the position doesn’t even matter. Her mother’s head begins to shake before she’s even finished her plea. By the time she’s stopped talking, she’s already raised a finger, poised to point in her direction.

            “And all that, that erases his cop identity to you? Undoes all of his crimes against our people? A few acts of kindness and he is our oppressor no longer?!”

It’s an accusation she should have been ready for, but the words send her into a panic. Her mind scrambles to reply, to find something to show the true character of the man she has fallen for, but it won’t translate to words. If she’s honest, the more her mother speaks, the greater the doubt in the pit of her stomach.

            “No, Ma—”

            “So you can accept them then? You can allow yourself to love him, despite who he is? What he has done? That doesn’t matter to you?” The volume of her words is rising now, gaining momentum from her outrage.

She tries to calm her shallow breaths and she sits, composes herself to respond. Whatever it is that she chooses to vocalise will never be enough, but that doesn’t stop her from phrasing it carefully.

            “I don’t accept what he may have done in the past... but I’m willing to accept the man he is now, and the man he’s working towards being.”

Her mother presses her palms flat against the table, pushes her wooden chair back with a scrape against the flooding as she stands. Her brown eyes are ever more resentful, mouth set in a tight line that conceals the true intensity of her feelings.

            “That may be enough for you, but I didn’t raise you to make these kinds of choices. You are my daughter, and I will always love you, but I won’t speak of this again.” The words are stern. “I’ll see you in church.”

The weight of her words lay heavy on her, make her chest tight as if smothered by a ton of bricks. She excuses herself from the table, putting on her coat and wiping away the tears from her cheeks as she accepts her cue to leave. She utters a goodbye from the doorway, but hears nothing in return as the latch clasps shut on the door.

 

* * *

 

Flip had stared at the tattered calendar in his kitchen every morning. Watched as the days ticked down to the dreaded March 15th. In the final days, he couldn’t even bring himself to cross off the days with a pen, as if that might erase the upcoming events. The words he had spoken to his lover echo in his mind: _after that it’s all us_. He yearns for that time, where he can be with her and put the chaos of the Klan behind him. On the night of March 14 th, he finds himself practically wishing to meet the Grand Wizard of the KKK. To just get it over with. He circles his lounge, paces up and down in frustration, rakes his hands forwards and back through his hair as he tries to remember all the details for tomorrow, to etch them into his mind. Just the thought of donning those white robes makes him sick to his stomach, as if the touch of their fabric might singe his Jewish skin. He’s never been a particularly nervous man, but tonight he can barely calm down, hardly sit still. On the odd occasion he looks at his hands, they tremble in the dim light of his lounge. His eyes catch sight of the phone on the small cabinet, mind alight with a new idea. He leans for it, feels his fingertips grace the cream plastic before he pulls it back again. No, that’ll only make it worse. He curses himself, withdraws his hand, continues his pacing. He’s barely done three more steps before he’s circled back round, picked up the receiver with such force he knows it’s for certain this time. He dials her number from memory, doesn’t even take a moment to recall the digits. He tells himself it’s because he’s a cop, he has to remember things, but he knows deep down he’s not true. He’d spent plenty an evening collapsed on his couch, debating drunk dialling just to hear the sound of her voice, to feel close to her after all those months.

            “Hello?” Her sleepy voice comes through the phone.

As soon as he hears her he realises he has no idea what exactly it is he’s calling her for, or what he wants to talk to her about. His first instinct is to make something up, his dignity wouldn’t usually allow him to admit he just wanted to hear her, but tonight is different.

            “Hey I uh… just wanted to call, I… needed to hear your voice.” He’s grateful she can’t see him as he speaks: face scrunched up with nerves, arm bent double to scratch the base of his neck.

She smiles from the other end, balances the phone between her cheek and her chin as she sinks into the welcome fabric of her sofa and wraps her dressing gown tighter around herself.

            “And you couldn’t have heard my voice earlier today?” She only half-jokes.

She’d rushed from her bedroom at the sound of the phone, eager to stop the shrill ring into the night. Before she’d even reached the phone, she knew it would be him. He was the only person she knew that was ever awake at this hour.

            “Shit, I didn’t even see the time. I can call back, if you’re sleeping—"

            “It’s alright, just so long as this isn’t another _late-night_ conversation.” She makes an effort to laugh as she says the words, eager to show she’s not too serious.

He palms his face at the thought of it. He only ever used to call on his late shift, hunched over in his office chair, alone. Fingers fiddling with the buttons on his jeans as the clock ticked well into the early hours. By the time she’d risen from her slumber, balled first pressed into her eye as she stumbled her way to the phone, he’d already be half way to his orgasm. He’d somehow always hold out long enough to have her mood shift from frustrated to flustered, only to utter a rushed goodbye when he was past his climax. She’d return to her bed, too angry to act on her arousal, only to be dragged into the same cycle a few days later.

            “I really need to apologise for that,” he only half-laughs off the shame of his past actions, still palming his face.

            “Another time maybe,” she dismisses, taking a sip of her coffee, feeling the warmth soothe her insides. “I suppose you’re wanting some reassurance about tomorrow?”

Even as she says the words, she knows she can’t be the person to give it to him. The knowledge that he would spend tomorrow condemning people of her race in a white hooded robe with hand raised in salute was enough of a strain for her, encouraging it was something else entirely.

            “I don’t want to talk about tomorrow.” His words are a little too firm, when he speaks next, his voice is calmer. “Anything else you’ve got to say, I’ll listen.”

“Hmm, where to start…” she muses, trying to keep her mind away from the serious. “Oh! Did you hear about Evans?”

“What about him?” Flip answers, interest piqued, sombre tones all but forgotten.

He wasn’t normally one to gossip, but Jared Evans was hardly his favourite man in the office. He’d spent a year at one of the best colleges in the state, before dropping out and entering the department. It might have been assumed his educational U-turn was something of a taboo, but he mentioned it at every opportunity, letting everyone in the office know they were sat amongst greatness. Or so he thought. He didn’t let the plethora of unsolved cases against his name tarnish his self-assured demeanour, strolling into the office each morning as if he owned the joint. He’d volunteered to help Flip out on the KKK case more than a few times, but his loud mouth was sure to land them in trouble eventually. Plus, he wasn’t so sure Evans didn’t secretly agree with their ideals.

            “His wife left him,” she smirks as she hears the slight inhale on the other end of the line, “and that’s not even the best part… she’s screwing his brother.”

Just the sound of Flip’s cackle on the other hand makes her cheeks ache from smiling. She images him leaning over, slapping his knee at the thought of it, beautiful lips of his spread wide into her favourite expression.

            “You have _got_ to be shitting me,” he manages breathlessly. “Tell you what though, that sleezy bastard deserves it.”

Evans had been known to be more than a little handsy with the women he brought in under his custody. There’d been rumour of him accepting sexual favours in return for dropping charges, and though Flip had never had it confirmed, it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest if it was true. He never dared lay a hand to her, whether it was the fear of Flip’s actions or his own racial bias, she couldn’t decide. They gossip about the station men for a little longer, shifting from Evans, to Jimmy, to Ron, and back to Evans. A pang of regret radiates through his chest as they speak, the thought that he’s missing out on things day to day sitting with him while she talks. She’s become a bigger part of the station than he is. As he listens to her voice, he can’t help but think how much he wants to see her.

            He sighs deep. “You know I miss you more than I can handle.”

The words catch her off guard at first, interrupting her story about the Chief and tugging on her emotions. She presses her face against the receiver, desperate to bring herself closer to him. Smell his smell, feel his facial hair tickle her skin as they kiss.

            “I miss you too…” And there it is, the everlasting pain of their relation back once more. “Are you sure tomorrow’s going to run smooth? What if you can’t get—”

            “I’m going to do whatever it takes to get out of there, but not before I see to every single one of those bastards first. If not for me, then for you.”

The tone of his voice silences her. Her toes twitch with unease as she sits cross-legged on her sofa, fingers wrapped around the cord of the phone. The quiet stretches across the line as he holds the bridge of his nose with his fingers, angered at himself for snapping. Before he can open his mouth to apologise, she’s speaking again.

            “Well good,” she starts up, “cause I already told my Ma about you, and I didn’t go through all that for us not to be together at the end of all this.”

Her words are meant to come out jokingly, but as they tumble from her mouth her fear of tomorrow’s events reaps the humour from them. Flip is quiet on the other end of the line, trying to process the importance of what she’s just said. They had spoken about her mother a few times, each time when they were laid up in bed, body to body, revealing all to one another. She had seemed a kind and loving woman, though he doubted those same emotions would extend towards him.

            “Really? You did?” he massages his fingertips into his goatee as he speaks. “That’s… a big deal. How did she take it?”

The sound of her sigh from the other end is enough to indicate exactly how it went. A wave of guilt washes over him as she begins to speak, he doesn’t want to be the one responsible for a breakdown in their mother-daughter relationship. He knows how much her mother means to her.

            “Well let’s put it this way, you aren’t invited over for Sunday dinner anytime soon.”

Flip laughs, more from the relief of the situation than from her joke.

            “Well, I can work on that.”

            She scoffs. “It’s gonna take you a while.”

            “Fine by me. I got the rest of our lives together to convince her. She’ll come around eventually.”

The casual tone of his voice, discussing their conjoined future, warms her heart. She places a hand over her mouth, as if to hide her smile from him. It’s not an ideal situation, but she stands by the words she said to her mother that day. She’s willing to accept the man he’s going to become.

            “Anyway, I should uh… I should go. Long day tomorrow,” he quickly covers himself, scratching the back of his head and wincing on the other end of the line.

Was it too much? Too cheesy? No word of it had been a lie, he’d known for some time he was devoted to spending the rest of his life with her, whether that was the next sixty years of the next six weeks. He was ready.

            “Flip?” she calls from the other end of the line, eager to catch him before he goes.

            “Mhm?”

The words hang on her tongue for a moment before they come out.

            “I… I love you.”

She had told herself she would only say the words when she meant them, and when she was sure he was deserving of them. Perhaps, both had been true for some time, but her own stubbornness had withheld the admission. But the thought of tomorrow’s danger, and the knowledge that she would not see him until the day—and the investigation—was complete, brought her fear. She would never forgive herself if something happened, and he never heard those words due to her own poor character. So she lets him hear them now, and from the other end of the phone, she’ll never know how happy they make him. He feels as if he could fist pump, jump up and down in his living room at the joy of it. He settles for a wide smile, a short hum of amusement, and holding the phone just that bit tighter in his hand. He’d bend over backwards for her love, and to know now that he definitely has it is the best gift he could wish for.

            “God, you don’t know how much that means to me.” He admits, she can hear his voice a little quieter than before, almost wobbly. “I love you so much. I’ll see you when this is all done. Just us. Goodnight baby.”

            “Goodnight Flip.” Her fingers wrap tight around the receiver, not ready to let go this little piece of him. “Be safe tomorrow.”

She stays clutching the phone until the dull dial tone replaces the sound of his voice, knowing she’ll be lying on his side of the bed that night, searching for his scent somewhere in her pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally i wanted this chapter to feature the action of duke's visit and everything i have planned for that, but i've taken so long out of my writing that every time i sat down to write those scenes they just felt... off. so i decided to run with a few 'filler' scenes, that give a bit more of a snippet into how their relationship is progressing. if you're still reading, thanks so much for sticking with me. i promise i won't let you down again, and i love you all so much. please let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments, and where you think it's going in the final few chapters. until next time x


	20. dawn of the duke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the day of his induction to the Klu Klux Klan, Flip becomes aware of a sinister plot that could threaten everything he holds dear. He must decide precisely what it is he is willing to sacrifice not only for her, but for himself.

When he wakes that morning, the feeling of dread is nestled deep in his stomach. He had barely slept last night. Had tossed and turned until there was no mattress left to go to, the thought of the day ahead keeping his mind from settling down. He had imagined what his mother might think, if she saw, even for a second what he had become. The images of him in a pristine white robe, hand raised in the air, lips reciting the words that had condemned her parents all those decades ago. The sight of him would be sure to cause her pain. He knew it, because he felt the same pain within him. He wakes every few hours, sitting up and contemplating his fate, haunted by his beside clock. 2:51. 3:42. 5:04. By the time it reaches 7:30, he decides he might as well wake for the morning. Heavy feet carry him to the kitchen, slap against the cool lino of his flooring as he rests his palms on the counter side, bows his head beneath his shoulders. He pours a stiff shot of brandy, grunts as it burns his throat and stomach, begging it to wake him up, still his nerves, strengthen his mind. It barely manages one of those things. The shrill ring of the phone stirs him from his emptiness, makes his large frame flinch in the loneliness of his home.

            “Yeah?” he grunts, unsure whether the person on the end is friend or foe.

            “Everything is in place for today. I’ll be at the church, Jimmy is gonna be on your flank at the ceremony. Sergeant Trapp has backup on standby for you, you need their help you just say the words.”

Ron’s voice is calm and collected through the phone, the polar opposite of how his partner feels. Flip’s shoulders visibly ease at the sound of his direction. There were only two people he could draw strength from, both his partners in different respects. In truth, Ron would have probably been better placed at Flip’s side for the ceremony today. God knows he needed someone to calm him. But he couldn’t chance it, not for Ron and not for her. Risking Ron’s life at the ceremony for a bit of peace of mind wasn’t worth it. And besides, he needed someone stationed at that church. He had no idea what they were planning, if they were even planning anything, but he wouldn’t dare leave her unprotected. If anything happened to her… it would have all been for nothing.

            “…How are you feelin’ about it all?” Ron asks when no words are spoken back to him.

 “I just want it fuckin’ over.” Flip says, raising a near-trembling hand to rub his temple.

Ron pauses on the other line, notices the determination in his voice. This man was volatile. This assignment had been draining him, and he would do whatever it took to have it finished.

            “Remember what we said. You stay close, coax a plan out of ‘em, and we can take them on conspiracy charges.”

It hurts Ron to drag those words from his mouth. It feels like defeat. To have come this far, risked so much, only to have them on charges which would see them released out into the world in a matter of years does nothing to settle his stomach. The thought of them emerging from prison in the near future, minds set on seeking revenge, was enough to make him fidget with unease. He presses the thought from his mind, focuses on the wellbeing of his partner.

            “Just _don’t_ … do anything stupid.”

Ron hears a short grunt from the other end before the line goes dead. Flip’s mind is idle as he readies himself that morning, his body running on auto pilot as he buttons his shirt, fastens his belt, works some light wax through his hair. He doesn’t even take the time to admire the finished product, simply grabs a jacket and his wire and forces himself into his car, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t allow himself a moment to pause when he gets in, ramming the keys straight into the ignition. If he stopped, even for a moment, he wouldn’t start the car at all. He’s sure of it. The ride is silent. No radio, just the sound of his tires over the road. He parks in the furthest spot at Pike’s Lodge, as if the distance between their bumpers might save him from their mentalities. The second he gets out of the car, the reality of what’s about to happen sets in.

            “Ron, well it’s about damn time!” Walter shouts with open arms, his enthusiasm not quite met by its recipient. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

Flip swallows the nerves rising in his throat as he crosses the remainder of the parking lot to where the men are standing. He recognises the man accompanying Walter before he’s been introduced, the sheer sight of him brings his pulse to a standstill.

            “Ron, this is David Duke, the Grand Wizard of the Klu Klux Klan.”

Flip’s not even sure he’s registering the words as they’re spoken to him. It takes him a moment to accept Duke’s hand as he extends it towards him, barely managing to rouse himself out of his daze. Flip’s build practically dwarfs him, the smaller man looking up from under a carefully combed bouffant. The line of his suit, the smoothness of his palm and the strong aurora of cologne let Flip know that he is a very rich man. _Hate must sell_ , he thinks, remembering back to the membership fee he had paid to be part of this charade.

            “I’ve been very impressed by your ideas over the phone, it’s nice to finally meet you in person Ron.”

Despite their supposed over-the-phone rapport, Flip is shocked to hear the tone of the man’s voice for the first time. He tries to hide the surprise from his face, to quell the raise of his eyebrow that seems so instinctive.

            “Likewise, Mr. Duke.” Is all he can muster in the moment, letting go of the smaller man’s smooth palm to stick his hand back firmly in his pocket.

It twitches into a balled fist as he fights the urge to knock the smugness clean off his face, send him hurtling back into the stone stairs he steps on. It wouldn’t solve a thing, but it sure would feel good.

            “We should probably head inside, the ceremony’s due to start soon.” Walter suggests.

Flip follows the two men up the steps, readjusting the line of his crisp shirt to make sure his mic is receiving clearly. It dawns on him that he’s not even sure where Jimmy’s parked, but he heads into the building anyway, realising there’s no chance to turn back now. The wooden floorboards creak under his smart shoes while his eyes wander around the venue. It’s huge, with wooden decked walls and a high ceiling that towers far above his head. He tries not to pay too much mind to the mostly black catering staff, ashamed of what they must think of him. There was no way to tell them it was all a lie; he was simply here on work business. And if he had, what difference would it make? He would still be a cop to them, and in their eyes, that was no better. He busies himself with small talk, feigns excitement at the prospects of the day, gulps down the champagne whenever it’s offered his way. By the time he’s donning his robes with the other men in one of the back rooms, he’s starting to feel the first effects.

            “Look ‘atcha hands, you’re shaking like a fuckin’ woman.” Felix hisses at him in the small confine of the room, a more extravagant robe draped over his bony body.

A few of the men in the room begin to laugh. Normally, Flip might have let a comment like that slide. He lets a lot of things slide where Felix is concerned. For the sake of Felix’s health and his own. But the stress of the situation is too much, not to mention the slight twinge of alcohol that still lingers on his taste buds. Flip turns his shoulders to face Felix, but doesn’t look up from the buttons on his robe.

            “Least my hands are actually capable of makin’ women shake Felix.” Flip pipes up, earning a hearty laugh from the rest of the room.

            “You motherfuc—” Felix curses red-faced, only to be stopped by Walter’s firm arm and disapproving glare.

            “We got five minutes until the ceremony, knock it off.” Walter barks.

Flip directs his eyes towards the leading man, catching a knowing glance that tells him it’s not just Felix that’s getting a warning. He reminds himself to keep his mouth shut as they beginning passing into the hallway, Duke and his right-hand man waiting for them. The men bow their heads as Duke launches into a speech, mouth spilling the supposed excellence of the white race, his words lost on Flip’s ears. Just the sound of his words, the passion and hatred behind them, sobers him up.

            “Hoods up.” Duke orders.

Flip doesn’t have a moment to hesitate as he lifts the fabric over his head, pulls it down over his skin and feels its symbolism begin to suffocate him. He’s grateful his expression is hidden by the garment, as he bites hard into his lip to withhold the emotions he feels within. They pass into another hall wordlessly, drop to their knees in unison before the man that would see them all as certified klansmen. Flip clasps his hands in front of him, locks them together tightly to stop them from shaking. In his mind flash images of his family. His mother singing Hebrew lullabies in his childhood. The embroidered pattern of his younger brother’s Kippah. It was strange that it had taken him until this moment, knelt before the Grand Wizard of the Klu Klux Klan, to notice the beauty in those details. To shed away the hatred of Judaism his father had encouraged in him, to lean into the faith which had always been just in arm’s reach. He cannot bring himself to look at Duke as he begins another speech.

            “God, give us true _white_ men. The invisible empire demands strong minds, brave hearts, true faith and clean, ready hands. Men who have honour, men who will not lie….”

How long had he pretended? He had spoken with Ron about passing, though its severity had never truly hit him until this moment. No, he had never lied about his faith. Until this job, he had just avoided it. And what damage had that caused, to his community? To himself? Would he have even stopped to think about the harmful words spoken against him if they weren’t aligned with the white hoods of the klan? Now was not the time to be questioning his existence, and yet, there he was.

            “Ron Stallworth, step forward.”

Flip snaps out of his state, wills his knees not to tremble as he forces himself to a stand. His heart is practically in his mouth as he stands opposite the Grand Wizard.

            “Ron Stallworth, are you a non-Jewish, white American citizen?”

The milliseconds between the question and his answer feel like years, a single bead of sweat rolls down from his temple until it disappears under the line of his collar. He blinks rapidly from beneath the mask.

            “Yes.”

            “Yes what?”

He calms the frenzy in his mind. Sucks in a breath and levels his voice. It takes all his strength not to whisper.

            “Yes… I am a non-Jewish… white American, citizen.”

And there it is, the verbal denial of a shame he had internalised for so long. He knows that no matter the outcome of the investigation, no matter what happens with the klan, the fact those words have left his mouth will sit with him forever.

            “Take off your hood.” Duke orders him.

He does so obediently, his dark eyes firmly pressed to the ground, unsure whether they might betray him if he were to look directly into the eyes of the man in front of him. He flinches as a splash of water graces his front, the shadow of Duke’s oily palm cast over his body as he is blessed and crossed. As he takes his steps to return to the line of kneeling men, he wonders how he could have performed such an action under the guise of religion. He zones out through the remainder of the blessings, awakened only by the sounds of rushing footsteps and cheering as the wives and friends of the inaugurated klansmen burst through the back door of the hall on Duke’s command. He dodges the questions on why no one has arrived for him, instead reluctantly accepting a hug from the wives of the other men. He pretends to ignore their lingering hands, the way they rest their head on his large chest. If their husbands notice it, they don’t say a word of it to him.

            “Hey, hey Ron!” Ivanhoe calls over to Flip once the ceremonial duties are done with. “You’re a real… real one of us now, huh?”

His voice is laced with the same drawl as always, he’s clearly been on something heavier than the complimentary champagne. Ivanhoe raises a stubby fingered hand to slap it down onto Flip’s shoulder, his firm palm causing the taller man to almost dip with the force. He laughs off the action, lightly shoving the man’s limb away from him.

            “You ready to kill your first niggers today?” He grins.

            Flip’s words blurt out before he can think to stop himself. “What?!”

He doesn’t attempt to mask the surprise on his face, brows crumpled up over his eyes, top lip curled up half way between confusion and aggression. The façade is gone now. He hopes his words are nothing more than drunken drabble, but something deep in his gut tells him otherwise. Ivanhoe doesn’t seem to notice his demeanour.

            “Felix ain’t told you?” Ivanhoe makes a hum that could be mistaken for contemplation, though Flip isn’t sure he maintains the capacity for such a thing. “We barbecuin’ those niggers today.”

He bursts into a wheezy laugh, drawing the attention of some of the surrounding klansmen. Flip clasps a firm hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, fingertips digging into his shoulder muscles.

            “What the fuck are you talkin’ about Ivan?”

Ivanhoe barely shifts under his fingers, if anything, Flip’s arm stabilises him somewhat.

            “Felix said them church niggers are a disgrace to Jesus… him and Walker said they was gonna blow ‘em all to shit. Connie’s takin’ the bomb there today, they won’t suspect nothin’ if she goes.”

Flip’s heart stops. The saliva in his mouth drying up as it hangs open, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. Just the thought of losing her, the mere suggestion that she might be harmed at the will of his fellow Klansmen makes his blood boil, fists curl, breath deepen. But he knows under that burning hatred, there’s a fear. An innate worry that the only woman he ever loved might meet her end in a matter of hours. He wouldn’t even know what to do if… he stops himself there. Not daring to entertain the thought. He can’t. He won’t. Jimmy searches the glovebox of his car for his radio, practically fumbling over it as he scrambles to report the information back to the officers at the CSPD. The white noise from the device almost deafens him ad he pushes down on the button. He gives it a rough few smacks with the palm of his hand, begging it to surge into action. It does no such thing.

            “Fuck!” Jimmy curses.

They’re on their own.

            “Why the fuck did no one tell me about this?” He snarls at Ivan through bared teeth, barely managing to halt himself from knocking him clean out with a swift right hook. “I’m meant to be your _brother_ goddamnit!”

Ivan shrugs. Flip releases Ivan’s shoulder, drags both his hands back through his hair, nails raking over his scalp as the stress of the situation sets in. One foul move, one out of character toilet trip, and they’re onto him. He has to play this very carefully. His eyes scan the crowd frantically. Was Connie still here? Had she already left? What if she’d already planted the bomb before the ceremony? He spots her head of auburn hair between the shoulders of some of the other men and breathes a sigh of relief, feels his shoulders sag with the air that leaves his lungs. He casts his eyes back to Ivan, suddenly cautious that his outburst may have been a little too obvious, even to Ivan.

            “You know I owe you for always keepin’ me in the loop. Lemme buy you another beer,” Flip offers, the words sounding forced as they come from his mouth. ”I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the wooden hallway on the building, his smart shoes clunking against the floor as he walks purposefully. He palms his jacket as he waits in the hall, feigning looking for his wallet as he speaks softly down the mic to Jimmy. To anyone on the outside, his words might have been mistaken for muttering.

            “Jimmy, I’m gonna need about a half hour before we take this back to the station.”

He can only pray his partner is receiving him as he begins to walk out of the corridor, the loose remnants of a plan forming in his mind. The cool sensation of the beer bottle against his palm does little to calm him down as he returns to Ivan’s side. They pass a few sips in silence, before Ivan starts rambling about something or other, Flip only half listening to what he’s saying.

            “You know, with all you do for the organisation, it’s a wonder Walter never thought to nominate you for the new chapter leader.” Flip comments, just lightly enough that it sounds like a passing thought.

He lets the words hang in the air for a few second, watching Ivan’s expression from the corner of his eye before he goes in for the kill.

            “I don’t know, maybe if Felix hadn’t said what he said… you’d have had a chance.”

            “What’d that motherfucker say?” Ivan pipes up, fist visibly clenched around the neck of his beer bottle.

Flip takes a long sip of his drink, draws out the tension the best he can.

            “Ah… you know what he’s like…” he takes a peek over at the other man and shrugs nonchalantly. “He said he didn’t see you as competition, you know… because you can’t read. He said he’d be better off letting his dog lead the chapter.”

            “I can read goddammit! I can read gooder than he can!” Ivan bursts.

Flip doesn’t even crack a smile, the seriousness of the situation stealing the amusement from his lips.

            “I know, I know. I just can’t believe he’d say that about you, y’know… after everything you’ve done for him, and with how close you are.” Flip shakes his head, takes another sip of his beer. “He’s got the whole chapter thinkin’ you’re a dumbass.”

            “That fuckin’…” Ivan mutters.

            “Now listen,” Flip extends the hand holding his beer towards Ivan, taps the bottle lightly against his shoulder. “I wouldn’t take that shit if I were you. I’d give him a piece of your mind. But hey, this didn’t come from me alright? Same way I won’t say nothin’ about the bomb you shouldn’t say anythin’ about this.”

Ivan gives him a sturdy nod. “I owe you Ron.”

Flip gives him a sharp pat on the back, watching as he barrels over to where Felix is standing. Even from this distance, he can hear Ivan start an argument, Felix’s dry voice aggressively trying to calm him. His distraction has worked. He scans the crowd for Connie, finds her clutching tightly onto her bag at the end of the ladies table. He sucks in a sharp breath, puffs out his chest a little and tries to still his heart as he makes his way over, reminding himself time is ticking.

            “Afternoon ladies,” he hums in what he hopes is a charming manner.

Something about it must work because he’s greeted by giggles and coos from the women, who cease their conversations to entertain his presence. He’s never been more grateful for his looks than in that moment.

            “Mind if I steal Connie away from you for a moment?” he asks, careful to lace his words with the right amount of seriousness that it doesn’t come across too forward.

Connie turns around, meets his eyes wild mild surprise, but plays off a laugh for the rest of the group.

            “As long as you steal me next,” one of the women laughs.

            “I can’t make any promises.”

As she follows Flip into the hall of the building, she feels herself growing panicked. By the time he opens his mouth to talk to her, she’s damn near hyperventilating.

            “There’s been a change of plans. It’s too high risk for you to plant the—”

            “But Felix said—”

Flip cuts her off before she can finish. Connie was a rambler on the best of days, working herself up into a state that could take close to an hour to calm her down from. He didn’t have an hour. Not even close.

            “Look Felix would never admit it, but he’s scared. He doesn’t want you in that situation. Do you know what you’d be looking at for planting a device like that? Fifteen years _minimum_ , more depending on the casualties. And it’d be you that’d be going to prison, not Felix.” He can see the panic setting in on her features, eyes darting about in crazed sockets. “Listen, I’ve discussed it with the guys and they want me to do it. I’m the newest recruit, I got no family to leave behind and I’ve been to prison before. I can handle this, okay? Give the bomb to me.”

His own panic is reflected back at him in her expression, the passion in his voice fuelled by the shear fear she might not believe any of the words leaving his lips. He can see her turning the situation over in her mind before she caves, goes to reach arm deep in her bag with thick, shaking hands.

            “No no! I’ll just take the bag. It’s easier that way.” He advises, the panic of her stubby fingers accidentally triggering something driving him to almost shout. “Go back inside, and keep calm alright? I’m doing this for the good of The Organisation.”

She wraps him into a tight hug, bag clenched between their chests.

            “I can’t thank ya enough Ron, you’re a real gentlemen.”

Thankfully she doesn’t hold onto him long enough for him to decide whether he needs to hug her back. She scuttles back into the main hall, leaving him with the bag hanging loosely in his hand. His mind whirs over the seriousness of the situation. He almost jumps out of his skin as the door to the building bursts open, a breathless looking Jimmy behind it. Flip doesn’t even have the time to curse under his breath before the older man is wheezing words of panic.

            “The radio’s a bust. I can’t get through to Trapp, we’re on our own.”

            “You have _got_ to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” Flip’s tone is stern.

Jimmy shakes his head wearily, only just noticing the bag clutched in his partners hand. He takes one swift gulp when he realises what its contents must hold.

            “What the fuck are we gonna do with this?!” Flip is almost shouting the words, the dread of the situation finally starting to set in.

            “We’re gonna have to bring it to the sta—”

            “We can’t bring it to the station! What if it detonates?”

It occurs to Flip he doesn’t even know if the device is trigger or timer based, every second he holds onto it could bring him closer to being blown to pieces.

            “Can’t you do somethin’ about it? You were in the army weren’t ya?”

            “I was in the fuckin’ infantry Jimmy I don’t know what to do with this shit!”

            “Keep your voice down,” Jimmy hisses, suddenly aware of their situation.

Flip rubs his fingertips back and forth over his forehead hard enough to leave marks. He knows what the solution is going to have to be before its said, but he’s still grateful the words don’t eventually come from his mouth.

            “We’re going to have to leave it here.” The words are practically a whisper from Jimmy. “We’re gonna have to leave it here, go get backup, and seize them on the way back.”

            “Trapp’s not gonna like that. The Chief will have our asses.”

            “You got a better idea?” Jimmy challenges, holding his arms out at his sides.

            Flip purses his lips. “Go get the engine running.”

As his partner disappears out of the building’s back door, Flip follows the wooden corridor around in search of the bathroom. He can only hope there’s no one inside as he bursts through the door, disappearing straight into one of the stalls and locking the door behind him. He daren’t look in the bag, for fear the sight of the device might truly unsettle what little composure he has left. He leaves it propped against the back wooden wall of the stall, taking a moment to inspect the out of place white leather bag in the middle of the men’s bathroom. It’s the best he can hope for. Backing out of the stall, he snaps the handle clean off the door, giving it an experimental shove to test it won’t open without it. It holds. He prays no one will disturb it before he can get back.

            “Honey,” Felix growls, a tight grip on Connie’s bicep as she attempts to slip back to the table. “I thought I told you not to leave that bag unattended.”

            “It’s not unattended, its with Flip.” Connie admits with a smile, her gratitude for the mentioned man still rife on her face.

            “It’s **_what_**?!” The words are a snarl from her husband’s mouth.

The grip around her bicep tightens so much that she squirms under his arm.

            “He said he was gonna take it to the church, that it was too risky if I took it. He said that you agreed! Felix, honey, you’re hurti—"

            “You are one _stupid_ bitch.” He hisses, casting her arm away hard enough that she practically topples over onto the table behind her.

There are a few gasps from the women around but he ignores them. He storms out of the building, seizing his jacket before marching out to the car park just in time to see a car speed out of the venue’s driveway, a cloud of dust in its path.

            “I reckon we’ve got about—” Flip grunts as the car hits a bump in the road. “—twenty minutes before they realise I’m gone, so we’re gonna have to make this quick.”

He grips on to the door handle as the car jolts over the uneven road, Jimmy’s reckless driving doing nothing to ease his nerves in that moment.

            “What about the bomb?” Jimmy questions. “The only bomb disposal guy I know works upstate. He won’t make it down here in time.”

            “It’ll have to be a controlled explosion, we can take it to—” Flip snaps his head around suddenly, his head peering between seats to stare directly out of the rear window.

There’s the sound of screeching tires from behind them, a vehicle hurtling towards the bumper of their car. Flip feels his gut drop as his eyes fix on the licence plate of the incoming vehicle. He knows that car.

            “Fuck,” Flip curses loudly. “That’s Felix’s car.”

            “What do we do?!” Jimmy can barely hide the panic in his voice.

They were barely three minutes from the station. Even if they were to speed up and make it on time, as soon as Felix realised where they were going it would be over for them. He’d piece everything together, and their chance of carrying out a successful arrest would be ruined. They were going to have to come up with something new. And fast.

            “We can’t go to the station. He’ll know we’re cops, and it’ll screw everything.” Flip’s voice is breathy.

            “Well where—"

Flip hates the next words that come from his mouth.

            “The church. That’s where he thinks we’re headed, and that’s where we’re gonna have to go.”

            “But—”

            “You heard what I fucking said! Just… _drive_.” Flip bellows, slamming the back of Jimmy’s headrest as if to jerk him into action.

The car lurches forward, Jimmy doing everything he can to keep Felix’s car as far behind as possible. Flip keeps a stern eye on the wing mirror, expecting the window to roll down and a gun-toting arm to pop out any second. Did Felix think he had the bomb? Did he know he was a cop? For a blind, stupid moment, Flip attempts to convince himself everything was still running smoothly. That Felix was simply tailing them to make sure everything went according to plan. That idea goes out the window almost immediately. He reaches forward into the glovebox, retrieves a small, government-issue firearm and cocks it ready for action as they hurtle past the turning they would have taken for the station. The work of the CSPD seems a long way away now.

            “Flip, I got a bad feelin’ about this…” Jimmy grimaces as they finally pull in to the road of the church.

            “Yeah no shit,” though the words sound confident in Flip’s mind, they are barely a whisper from his lips.

Their car slows to a stop barely a few feet from the church’s entrance. He tucks his firearm into the waistband of his pants, takes a stern breath in. It’s more than just him now, more than just an investigation. In the rear view mirror he watches Felix’s car pull up just a few feet away on the opposite side of the road. As he braces himself with his fingers around the door handle, he is glaringly aware of his situation. He is the last man standing between Felix and that church. Between the man who has ruined his life, and the woman who has made it.

            “You got my back?”

            Jimmy cocks his gun. “Always. Tread carefully.”

Flip forces himself out of the car, Felix joining him in the open air before the car door has even shut behind him. There’s a crazed look in his eye Flip had only seen once before: in those horrible minutes spent in his basement. And now, he was in the same damned position: odds stacked firmly against him.

            “You know I don’t trust you kikes as far as I can throw you,” Felix jeers, jabbing the handgun in his left hand aggressively in Flip’s direction. “You think I don’t know you’re playin’ some kind of game?”

Flips hands twitch nervously at his sides, all too eager to reach behind him and pull his gun on the man in front. There had been plenty a time before where Felix had been talked down from a ledge such a this, but now, Flip wasn’t so sure that was possible.

            “And what game would that be?” Flip is stalling now, hoping for something, any kind of favour.

He spies the warped image of the church in the metallic reflection of Felix’s car, wonders if a stray shot to one of the windows might buy him enough of a distraction to take Felix down as the congregation scattered out onto the street. He imagines them, hands raised in fear, wails filling the air, spreading out in all directions only to be caught in a crossfire that was entirely his fault. A picture of her, bloodied and splayed across the street, crosses his mind in a violent flash. Her Sunday best clothes tarnished with the aftermath of his own mistakes. No. He can’t risk that. He won’t.

            “You’re undercover, you’re a fuckin’ cop.” Felix hisses.

 _Fuck_ , Flip thinks. He feels the air leave his lungs. The illusion was shattered. He knew the truth. Fuck knows how he knew, but he did. It was too late to play dumb, feign ignorance, say he didn’t know what he was talking about. The pack had been drawn, and all the cards were firmly in Felix’s hand.

            Flip’s voice is dull. “How’d you find out?”

            “You ask too many questions,” the other man snaps, waving the gun around as if it meant nothing.

            “Comes with the job I guess,” Flip shrugs.

His poor attempt at humour is not met with amusement. Even Jimmy doesn’t crack a smile.

            “Always with a wise crack, huh. Let’s see if you’re still so wise after this…” Felix produces a small black device from his right pocket, his right thumb hovering closely over the button at it’s centre.

            “Hey hey hey, wait!” Flip stammers, hands suddenly shoved out in front of him.

His fingers tremble as they extend towards the other man, head bowed in instinctual panic. His surrender goes unnoticed by Felix, who chuckles, gun in one hand, detonator in the other. Flip’s heart beats so fast he can hear it drumming in his ears.

            “See, that’s the difference between you and me. You ain’t ready to die for this cause. When I signed up to the Klan, I gave my _life_ to them. And I’m ready to die for ‘em too… so long as I can take you and all those niggers with me.”

 _He doesn’t know_ , Flip realises, _he doesn’t fucking know_. Though the complexity of the situation weighs heavy on his mind, his thoughts alive with what will be published in the investigation report if Felix’s finger presses that button. Flip does something he hadn’t dared to do since the moment he started this investigation. He tells the unashamed truth.

            “That’s… that’s not gonna happen if you pull that trigger.” Flip raises his head slowly, eyes coming to meet Felix’s soulless, grey irises for the first time. “I didn’t bring the bomb with my Felix… it’s at the lodge. If you pull that trigger, you’ll kill everyone at that ceremony. Connie included.”

            “Don’t you dare say her name!” He screams.

Flip can see the cogs turning in his mind, his eyes wandering away from the taller man for the first time since he left his car. He scratches the side of his skull with long fingernails, mutters something to himself that Flip doesn’t hear. Hell, he’s surprised he can hear anything over the ferocity of his heartbeat. Slamming against his skull so loud he can barely think.

            “You think you can play those fuckin’ mind games with me, huh?” Felix threatens, jolting his handgun so rapidly it almost fires by mistake. “Well I don’t buy it. Burn in hell you fuckin’ yid.”

Felix slams his thumb down on the button, shields his eyes with the crook of his arm as if to protect himself from the expected blast. Flip seizes his opportunity, draws his pistol from his holster and fires two straight shots into the body of his enemy, one in the abdomen, and another just below the collarbone of his shirt. It pains him not to aim straight for his wretched skull, but his training teaches him better. They need him alive. They can’t prosecute a corpse. Something about the way his gaunt body slams against his car gives Flip a sense of pride, two bloodied strains dragging down the champagne metallic exterior. He stands over the wounded man, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of smoke. An emotion he can’t quite process begins to wash over him, not quite remorse, but not exactly joyous either. There’s a stir inside the church, the middle of Miles’ preaching disrupted by the two distinct gunshots that seem to ripple through the church walls.

            “Shit. Do you think that’s—” she mutters from under her breath, hands clutched tight to Ron’s sleeve.

A chorus of gasps and murmurs spread throughout the congregation like wildfire, all eyes turning to Ron as he makes his way to the front of the crowd.

            “Everybody stay calm, and remain indoors.” His authorative tone only silences the congregation for a moment before they erupt into chatter again, not noticing as he slips between the pews to make his way to the door.

She attempts to scurry after him, only to be stopped by the firm arm of her mother.

            “You heard what your friend said, don’t go out there.” It’s the same stern tone from her childhood, its accompanying glare usually enough to make her freeze in place. Now it doesn’t even phase her.

            “Ma, I gotta.” She yanks her arm free, wills her Sunday shoes to allow her to chase after Ron.

The sunlight almost blinds her eyes as she bursts through the doors after Ron, eyelids squinting to make out Flip’s shape in the afternoon glow.

            “Felix Kendrickson, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to—"

Her eyes adjust just in time to see the shot land from Felix’s gun, his final bid of cruelty before he accepts his fate. Flip’s body jolts back against the hood of Jimmy’s car, his arm scrambling for stability while his other cradles his rib. It feels as if her body has been paralysed, the life sucked clean out of her as she watches him sink down between the vehicles and out of sight. The sound of Ron’s shouts, the impact of Jimmy’s fist against Felix’s skin, the cry of the congregation behind her ebb past her as if in slow motion. As if time had left her behind, and was venturing on without her. A change in the wind brings her back to that moment, allows her legs to carry her unsteadily to where her man now lies. She drops to his side, shoves her hand against the now growing patch of blood that perforates through the linen of his shirt, her neat fingernails pressing against the bullet embedded in his skin. His large hands encase hers, the crimson of his blood coating his otherwise pale skin. Her eyes dare to meet his, a cloudy version of him staring back at her through the tears. A single drop falls onto the back of his hand.

            “I always knew this would happen,” her sobs are barely audible.

She chokes back the lump in her throat, fights the raw emotion that threatens to drown her. Everything other than the way he feels, the way he sounds, the way he looks is alien to her. The sound of Felix crying out for his lost klansmen from the back of Jimmy’s car. Ron radioing in for backup, the distant yet prominent sound of sirens in the background. Even the faint voice of Miles telling the congregation to remain calm and believe that the grace of the Lord would guide them through the situation. She can feel the blood pumping out from the wound, coursing over her skin as she does her best to help in any way she can. He’d been shot twice before, but the pain of the action had been tucked away in the deep recesses of his mind. This wound feels hot, sharp, and new, like a never-ending torture tucked deep within his stomach. He pushes through the pain, finds the words to comfort her.

            “Hey, hey,” he lifts his hand to her face, brushes the hair away from her tear stained face, remnants of his blood now smeared across her cheek. “It’s alright, it’s all over now.”

Just the sound of his voice jerks a cry from her throat, a sound somewhere so guttural she has no control over it. She had thought of this day, many times, and prayed that it would never come.

            “How can this be alright?!” She sputters. “I don’t want it to be over, I can’t… I can’t do this without you.”

The tears pour from her eyes,  cascading down her cheeks to mix with the smeared blood. Flip’s breath is ragged, the life slowly drifting away from him. His eyes search her face, attempting to draw strength from her when she feels like she has none. Even in with the twisting agony of his stomach, the uncertain future extending ahead of him, he finds the time to smile. To take in her features for what might be the last time, soak up his love for her and hope it’s enough to carry him on. He pulls her close to him, lets her skin rest against his dampened forehead, draws the scent of her deep into his lungs.

            “As long as you love me, I’ll be with you. I promise.”

He presses his lips to hers, feels her mouth against his own. If this is to be his final moment, this is how he wants to spend it. With her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo, this is probably the longest and most in the feels chpater i've ever written. before i go any further let me stress I STILL HAVE TWO CHAPTERS LEFT, so ths story is not over yet. i'm sorry this chapter has taken such a long time to get up, i think the fact that i knew how i wanted it to go (and wasn't looking forward to making it happen) as well as my personal life meant this took way longer than it should have, but ultimately i am so so happy with the outcome. i'm aware the events of this chapter are HUGE so please leave any thoughts on what you liked/disliked, what you think is gonna happen next or what you would like to happen next below! i really wanna know what you guys are thinking! love you all and thanks for the never ending support x


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